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notice  to  you  that  d^Bbok 
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date  of 


The  Bottle-Fillers 


The  Bottle-Fillers 


By 

Edward  Noble 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

THE    RIVERSIDE    PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE 
1916 


First  Printed       .        .        .       September,  1915 
New  Impressions  October,  1915  ;  January,  1916 


Printed  in  Gnat  Britain 


CONTENTS 


PHASE  THE  FIRST:    THE  CRIME 

CHAPTEK  PAGB 

I.      THE   RIDDLE         .....  3 

II.      ALL   HANDS   AHOY  !       .  .  .  .7 

III.      KISMET  .  .  .  .14 


PHASE  THE  SECOND:    THE  SENTENCE 

I.  A  CHALLENGE   .     .     .    *!¥     .  29 

II.  WE  CONCUR 48 

III.  LUCY     .     .     .   U&i.'-   .     .  54 

IV.  YESTERDAY           .             .        #«.;'-•   ILM>            .  63 
V.  AND    GOD   HAD   MADE   THEM   ONE                .  68 

VI.  ONE   IN   A   CROWD          .        -H**          .             .  74 

VII.  THREE   LETTERS 80 

VIII.  THE   BILLET           .         ,  *  *    U»;          .             .  86 

IX.  AT   THE   GANGWAY         .        :^7«          .             .  92 

X.  CAPTAIN   WORSDALE     ....  97 

XI.  THE   MEANING   OF  IT   .  .  .  .104 

XII.  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE   SHADOW  116 


PHASE  THE  THIRD  :    TICKET-OF-LEAVE 

I.      DOCKWALLOPING             .             .             .  .129 

II.      THE   ISLE   OF   DOGS       .             .             .  .186 

III.      WILLIAM  TIPTON  147 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAQB 

IV.      MILESTONES 155 

V.      A   PROBATIONER 166 

VI.      GLASGOW 175 

VII.      THE   CHANCE 182 

VIII.  HEADING   SOUTH              .             .             .             .198 

IX.  A   LEGEND   AT   DAWN  ....       205 

X.  LAVS  DEO       ......       210 

XI.  THE   WAY   TO   THE    STARS       .             .             .217 

XII.  THE   CLOSING    OF   GATES          .             .             .       226 


PHASE  THE  FOURTH:    EXPIATION 

I.  PETER   WITTERSPOON  ....  247 

II.  "  I   TRUSTED   YOU  "      .             .             .             .  265 

III.  NO.    45,    BEARSTED    ROAD       .             .             .  273 

IV.  CONTEMPTUOUS   EXISTENCE.             .             .  285 

v.  "POSTED" 298 

VI.  TIDE-TIME.             .             .        >i*:f!        .             .  810 

VII.  DUST   OF   THE    CITIES  .        <Jifc>     \/A.           .  322 

VIII.  THE    SAILING   OF   GRISSLDJ.      j£l          .             .  828 

IX.  A   THIN   SHEET   OF   STEEL       .             .             .  841 

X.  THE   STAR  ?.....  859 

XI.  THE    SILENCE   OF   ENGLAND                .             .  869 

XII.  MINATORY          ';-^P*,f        ....  884 

XIII.  SPLSNDIDE  MENDAX  .  .  .  .393 

XIV.  DAWN           .             .  410 


NOTE 

A  YEAR  ago  to-day  I  completed  the  revision  of  a  typed 
MS.  which  now  goes  to  press  entitled,  as  I  desired,  "  The 
Bottle-Fillers."  That  is  to  say,  as  a  Yankee  once  ex- 
pressed it,  diving  straight  to  the  bedrock  of  fact,  sailors  of 
the  red  ensign  and  of  the  blue. 

They  were  peaceful  enough  men  in  the  days  with  which 
this  story  is  concerned,  engaged  in  extracting,  unsung, 
such  nourishment  as  may  be  obtained  from  a  nearly  dry 
crust,  and  the  nation  was  unaware  of  them. 

To-day  they  are  warriors  even  as  their  brothers  of  the 
white  ensign,  and  have  given  their  quota  of  blood  without 
chaffering — commanders,  lieutenants,  midshipmen  of  the 
R.N.R.  and  Fleet  Reserves  ;  men  for  mine-sweeping, 
mine-laying,  trailing  lures  for  submarines,  patrolling, 
trooping,  fighting — anywhere  where  the  seas  roll  and 
Britain's  need  was  greatest.  Men  from  the  depths  lifted 
to  the  heights  ;  men  without  promise  alive  suddenly  to 
the  wording  of  His  Majesty's  order  given  last  May — "  The 
King  realises  what  magnificent  work  has  been  done  by 
the  brave  officers  and  crews  of  his  Merchant  Service  during 
the  past  months  of  war." 

The  King  realises  !  And  the  question  arises,  does  the 
nation  also  realise  ? 

One  goes  back  to  this  story  of  the  all  too  common  events 
of  our  sea  history  during  the  smug  and  soul-stifled  days 
of  a  harnessed  and  peaceful  competition.  It  has  nothing 
more  warlike  in  its  structure  than  the  war  against  odds, 
ashore  and  afloat,  which  is  the  perennial  business  of 
seamen.  It  treats  of  certain  factors  which  belong  to  the 
dormant  past,  the  stupid  leadline  and  stupider  deckload 
which  we  tamely  adopted  at  the  bidding  of  our  competi- 
tors ;  of  the  officers  and  men,  accoutrements  rusty  or  flung 
aside,  wearily  engaged  in  directing  great  ships  hither  and 


2137444  ' 


viii  NOTE 

thither  upon  the  seas,  and  in  the  process  filling  the 
pantries  and  cupboards  of  the  British  nation.  It  touches 
on  the  attitude  of  that  nation  which  has  lately  risen  from 
its  sleep,  honour  and  justice  on  its  lips,  to  strike  an  enemy 
who  long  had  strangled  it.  It  touches,  too,  on  the 
attitude  of  Authority  ...  an  attitude  which  must  never 
again  obtrude  ;  which  must  remain  buried,  as  the  war  has 
buried  it,  deep — deep  as  the  seas  which  lie  over  murdered 
Lusitania. 

E.  N. 
ORE, 
July  23rd,  1915. 


Phase  the  First 
The  Riddle 


CHAPTER   I 

THE   RIDDLE 

Gutterin1  through  the  dark 

Climbin',  not  fer  joy, 
Rollin'  like  the  good  old  Ark 

Just  fer  to  annoy  ? 
Quakin'  like  a  naspen  tree 

Tossin'  in  the  wind, 
Everytime  she  'its  a  sea 

Flat,  wiv  'er  be'ind. 

Dollopin',  wallopin',  blindly 

Over  the  sea  we  go 
Buttin'  at  mountains  gaily 

Just  as  if  we's  a  Show  ! 
Wallopin',  dollopin',  bashin'  'em, 

Bound  fer  'Amburg  they  say, 
Wiv  a  deckload  playin'  Ka-fu-salem 

Like  as  if  she's  a  dray. 

A  STEAMER  rolled  mammering  in  the  lap  of  a  grey  sea 
which  welled  on  her  quarter. 

She  seemed  to  be  in  doubt  of  her  builder's  intention. 
Whether,  for  instance,  she  should  remain  under  water  or 
above  water,  sidelong  upon  it  or  sidelong  beneath  it,  upon 
her  head  or  upon  her  tail — whether  indeed  it  would  not  be 
well  to  turn  turtle  and  try  the  effect  of  that. 

They  called  her  the  Sphinx,  which  was  inappropriate, 
seeing  she  had  neither  the  head  of  a  woman  nor  the  body 
of  a  lioness — still,  she  was  inscrutable,  enigmatic  as  the 
dainty  personage  who  christened  her. 

In  1902,  when  she  was  born,  she  was  something  to  look 
at.  She  had  a  shiny,  pink  belly  and  a  shiny,  grey  back. 
White  and  buff  had  been  adopted  for  her  scheme  of 
ornamentation,  and  men  who  flourished  stencil  plates  had 
worked  patterns  on  the  three  turrets  she  carried  for  housing 
her  crew.  She  shone  mellow  and  rotund  on  that  day  as  a 
cheese  ;  but  her  managing  owner,  when  he  saw  her  stand- 
ing out  to  sea,  loaded,  and  with  an  orange  dawn  for  back- 
ground, decided  she  looked  like  a  castle.  "  A  picture  of 


4  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

battlements  and  straight,  stiff  spars,  beautiful  to  see,"  was 
the  figment  he  found  for  her. 

Perhaps  he  was  right ;  but  this  happened  six  years  ago. 
Since  then  she  had  essayed  the  problem  of  carrying  deck- 
loads,  her  crew  had  learned  to  call  her  the  Riddle,  and 
William  Tipton,  master  mariner,  had  decided  to  come  out 
of  her.  Of  course  this  necessitated  finding  a  new  skipper, 
and  presently  Denis  O'Hagan,  lately  an  officer  in  the  mail 
service,  applied.  The  managing  owner,  or,  to  speak  by 
the  book,  Messrs.  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  said  he  liked 
the  look  of  him.  He  added  in  a  ruminating  fashion  en- 
tirely his  own,  that  if  Captain  O'Hagan  cared  to  invest 
in  the  Sphinx,  he  thought  he  could  promise  him  the  job. 
Captain  O'Hagan,  with  a  snug  little  legacy  burning  a  hole 
in  his  pocket,  thought  he  could.  There  were  pourparlers 
in  consequence,  and  Denis  O'Hagan  presently  stood  in  the 
shoes  of  William  Tipton,  master  mariner,  late  of  the 
Sphinx,  without  in  any  way  consulting  him. 

This  was  a  pity.  Indeed  it  may  be  taken  as  the  initial 
mistake  unless  you  are  a  misogamist  and  are  prepared  to 
attribute  all  that  follows  to  Lucy,  who  at  this  moment  was 
making  ready  to  marry  Denis  O'Hagan  ;  or  are  prepared 
to  assert  that  sailors  should  remain  unmarried. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Captain  Tipton  was  at  some  expense 
just  then  and  was  engaged  in  the  process  of  "  getting 
back  his  money "  from  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  an 
exceedingly  difficult  task,  so  it  seemed.  Captain  Tipton 
had  come  to  his  command  in  very  nearly  the  same  fashion 
four  years  earlier.  Sharum  said  he  rather  liked  the  look 
of  him,  adding  after  a  little  circumlocution,  that  if  he  was 
in  a  position  to  invest,  he  thought  it  possible  his  partners 
would  consent  to  his  appointment. 

If,  therefore,  Denis  O'Hagan  had  happened  to  meet 
William  Tipton  over  a  gin  cocktail  before  consenting  to 
invest,  he  would  not  have  been  at  the  pains  to  pu/zle 
things  out  now  that  he  commanded  the  Sphinx. 

During  his  first  trip  to  the  West,  O'Hagan  wondered 
why  Tipton  resigned  ;  on  his  return  with  a  deckload  the 
Sphinx  made  it  plain.  Still,  he  remained  in  command, 
because,  you  see,  he  had  resigned  the  mail  service,  had 
married  Lucy  and  taken  a  share  in  the  Riddle — the  mad, 
wild  Irish  gossoon  that  he  was. 

This,  then,  was  O'Hagan's  second  voyage  and  he  thanked 
God  he  was  nearing  the  end  of  it.  Whether,  when  he 


THE  RIDDLE  5 

arrived,  it  would  be  possible  to  get  out  of  this  vessel  and 
into  another  was  see-sawing  in  his  mind.  He  was  tethered, 
in  effect,  by  that  investment  he  had  made.  Nearly  five 
hundred  cool  British  sovereigns  were  sunk  in  the  Sphinx. 
He  marched  the  bridge  considering  how  he  could  recover 
them.  Since  the  first  day  out  from  New  York  the  ship's 
uneasy  movements  had  become  a  burden  to  him.  He  had 
formulated  no  opinion  why.  Had  he  been  asked,  he 
probably  would  have  said,  "  I  don't  like  the  feel  of  her," 
and  that,  after  all,  is  no  reason. 

He  also  prayed  they  might  have  decent  weather.  Last 
voyage  was  millpond  work ;  but  now  September  had 
come  in,  there  were  signs  of  early  equinoctials,  and  he 
didn't  like  that  deckload  they  carried.  Nor  did  the 
Sphinx.  It  made  her  sulky,  in  O'Hagan's  phrase,  which 
means  that  she  cared  very  little  whether  she  answered  to 
his  call,  or  turned  sidelong  to  examine  the  seas. 

She  seemed  to  have  acquired  a  habit  of  declination 
which  rather  amused  her.  Like  a  child  with  a  new  toy, 
she  was  always  fiddling  with  it.  At  the  perpendicular  she 
openly  scoffed.  Any  little  gust,  or  helm  action,  was 
sufficient  to  tilt  her.  She  swayed  as  she  slouched  towards 
the  dawn,  and  Zephyr  smiled  upon  her  effrontery. 

The  stark  Atlantic  skies  stooped  over  her,  marking  the 
line  she  drew.  America  had  done  with  her  and  sent  her 
forth  packed  to  the  bridge.  Gentle  winds  from  the 
sou'-west  had  blown  upon  her,  without  aim  or  concentra- 
tion, pushing  her  channelwards.  Sometimes  they  had 
provided  a  curtain  for  her ;  sometimes  held  it  up  so  that 
the  sea  and  the  birds,  the  grampus  and  blackfish  and 
porpoise  which  followed  her,  might  learn  new  tricks  of 
dive  and  pirouette. 

For  two  thousand  six  hundred  miles  she  had  moved  on 
her  bee-line  track  towards  the  rising  sun  ;  her  decks 
awash  in  the  swell  sent  down  to  tend  her ;  and  for  one 
thousand  additional  miles  she  must  continue  plodding. 
The  ship  of  Sahara  twists  grumbling  when  too  heavily 
laden,  but  refuses  in  spite  of  blows  to  rise  ;  the  ship  of  the 
Andean  plateau  speaks  her  mind  in  similar  conditions  ; 
but  the  ship  fashioned  by  man  is  inarticulate  until  her 
master  leads  her  to  the  playground.  Then  she  looks 
round  and  becomes  explanatory — but  the  hour  for  words 
has  gone  by. 

It  was  only  a  sluggish  line  the  Sphinx  had  drawn  hither 


6  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

from  New  York.  A  little  over  two  hundred  miles  a  day, 
occasionally  rather  less.  If  a  gale  came  her  way  she  waited 
until  it  was  tired — if  it  happened  to  blow  in  her  face. 
She  was  one  of  the  new  carriers,  of  easy  coal  consumption 
and  large  capacity  ;  a  ship  which  could  be  worked  with  a 
minimum  of  hands — those  people  of  the  deck  and  the 
Black  squad  who  had  dubbed  her  the  Riddle,  who  knew 
precisely  of  what  she  was  capable  and  damned  the  moment 
which  had  seen  them  sign  on  in  her. 

New  York  pushed  her  out  on  the  last  day  of  August,  and 
on  the  12th  of  September,  1907,  she  was  still  one  thousand 
miles  from  Hamburg.  To  be  precise  her  position  when 
night  closed  in  was  42°  21'  N.,  12°  46'  W.  Fastnet  was  a 
point  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  miles  distant  on  one 
bearing  and  the  Lizard  three  hundred  miles  ahead  on 
another,  or,  as  O'Hagan  put  it,  on  a  bearing  N.  78°  E. 
true.  All  this,  of  course,  provided  the  ship's  reckoning 
was  correct. 

From  her  bridge  it  was  possible  only  to  see  discoloured 
water,  seas  which  ran  lumpily  for  no  apparent  reason,  a 
dim  green  mistiness  which  increased  as  the  day  waned. 
Sailors  know  these  as  some  of  the  signs  that  England  and 
her  Channel  is  near  at  hand  ;  fishermen,  that  they  are  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  Great  Sole  Bank,  and  that  the 
Little  Sole  Bank  lies  farther  down  there  in  the  greyness. 
Now  O'Hagan  and  those  with  him  on  the  bridge  were  not 
concerned  with  sole,  but  with  the  fact  that  the  glass  was 
falling  still,  that  the  thin  mist  had  become  rain,  and  the 
movements  of  the  Sphinx  unpleasant  to  recognise. 

So  night  fell  upon  her ;  the  black  night  of  an  English 
autumn,  moonless,  starless,  but  pricked  on  all  sides  with 
phosphorescence  .  .  .  dull  globes  of  it,  comet-like  flashes, 
and,  wherever  the  sea  broke  or  the  ship's  side  touched  it 
there  fell  stars  and  dim  flame  most  wonderful  to  observe. 

She  moved  swaying  upon  a  sea  which  increased  in 
lumpiness.  She  came  up  to  the  wind  now  on  this  side, 
now  on  the  other,  but  the  busy  helmsman  forced  her  back. 
The  seas  that  boarded  her  struck  fire  out  of  the  sodden 
cases  and  casks  with  which  her  well-decks  were  cumbered. 
Sometimes  there  came  a  jerk,  sometimes  a  prolonged 
growl,  sometimes  a  tin-pot  squeal. 

And  over  all  and  above  all  the  wind  hummed  its 
majestic  and  impersonal  diapason. 


CHAPTER  II 

ALL  HANDS  AHOY  ! 

Down  by  the  edge  of  soundin's 

That's  where  the  sailors  lie  ; 
Flat  on  the  floor  like  groundlin's 

To  hear  the  ships  go  by  ... 
Lift  their  'eads  to  'ail  us 

Wave  their  arras  awhile, 
There  the  dead  men  watch  us, 

There  the  dead  men  smile. 

AT  eight  o'clock  the  Sphinx,  when  somewhere  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Great  Sole  Bank,  performed  that 
evolution  which  is  known  among  sailors  as  "  turning 
round  to  have  a  look  at  herself,"  but  as  it  was  black  night 
only  the  phosphorescent  swirl  she  made  with  her  wake 
was  to  be  seen.  A  green  sea,  though,  which  had  been 
chasing  her  up  the  floor  of  the  playground  decided  to 
make  a  sweep,  leaped  the  rail  and  attacked  the  deckload. 
That  was  cowardly.  On  consideration,  however,  it  was 
just  the  sort  of  thing  sailors  expect  of  the  sea  when  a  new 
hand  has  come  to  the  wheel  and  he  has  not  had  time  to 
rub  the  sleep  out  of  his  eyes. 

Captain  O'Hagan  crossed  from  his  place  behind  the 
dodger  and  said — 

"  Starboard  there  !  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  with 
her  ?  " 

"  'Elm's  'ard  hover,"  said  a  personage  from  the  slums 
of  Whitechapel.  "  Comes  up,  she  do,  against  'er  'ellum, 
sir." 

"  Watch  her  then.  Keep  the  wheel  moving  and  don't 
let  her  run  wild,"  said  O'Hagan  shortly. 

"  Bloornin'  compass  don't  move,"  growled  the  man. 
"  Looks  as  if  it's  glued." 

"  Then  watch  her  head." 

A  crash  in  the  well-deck,  somewhere  in  that  growing 
chaos  they  faced,  recalled  O'Hagan  to  his  post  of  observa- 
tion and  Cockney  was  free  to  swear  himself  blind.  He 


8  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

was  incompetent,  that  made  him  angry.  He  was  afraid 
that  made  him  vociferent.  The  wheel  was  stiff — he 
damned  the  wheel.  No  one  heard. 

O'Hagan  stood  looking  out  into  the  night.  Rather 
different  to  the  old  life  was  his  thought ;  rather  rough  on 
Lucy  if  he  brought  her  next  trip  and  it  was  like  this.  He 
wondered.  Then  a  sea  rolled  gurgling  and  cluttering  past 
the  rail  as  the  Sphinx  leaned  down  to  greet  it.  "  Hum  ! 
Going  to  blow  .  .  .  we  seem  to  be  in  for  dirt !  "  was 
O'Hagan's  comment. 

There  was  very  little  doubt  on  that  score  .  .  .  but 
what  in  the  world  was  that  noise  ?  Something  adrift  ? 
He  paused  by  the  bridge  rail  listening.  He  could  not  see 
what  it  was.  The  world  he  faced  was  black  and  humming ; 
but  "  Little  Steel,"  as  he  was  called,  because  he  was  big, 
was  down  there  somewhere  going  the  rounds.  Presently 
he  would  be  up  with  his  report  and  the  matter  must  be 
investigated.  The  noise  settled  into  a  steady  thudding, 
a  drumming  which  could  be  felt.  O'Hagan  sounded  his 
call. 

Then  out  of  the  blackness,  wet  to  the  eyes,  came  Little 
Steel  with  his  burden  of  news. 

"  Deck  cargo's  adrift,  sir.  We  must  get  all  hands  at 
it."  He  shouted  the  sentences,  his  head  inclined  against 
the  wind. 

"  Forward  or  aft  ?  "  O'Hagan  questioned  at  once. 

"  Forward,  sir.  Those  big  cases  abreast  of  number 
two." 

Number  two  was  a  hatch  in  the  well  across  which  the 
sea  broke  with  monotonous  regularity. 

"  Very  good.     Tell  the  mate  and  turn  the  hands  out." 

He  stood  after  Steel  had  gone  considering  the  meaning  of 
this  order.  All  hands  !  It  sounded  important,  it  con- 
jured a  rush  of  men  who  would  presently  arrive  rubbing 
the  sleep  from  their  eyes,  keen  to  discover  what  danger 
confronted  them ;  but  the  number  which  would  dash 
from  the  fo'c'sle  on  the  Sphinx  could  be  counted  on  the 
fingers  of  their  captain's  hands.  Six  men  and  two  mates, 
eight.  That  was  the  total.  There  were  also  the  folk 
known  as  "  Idlers  "  on  board  ship,  the  cook,  steward,  and 
bo'sun-lamp-trimmer,  who  might  be  used  at  a  pinch  ;  but 
they  were  scarcely  equipped  to  wrestle  with  cases  of 
machinery  adrift  in  that  swirl.  To  grapple  with  weights 
it  is  necessary  to  know  something  of  cargo  work,  something 


ALL  HANDS  AHOY!  9 

of  the  movements  of  this  she-devil  they  footed,  something 
of  the  perils  of  darkness,  thin  rain  and  the  punch  of 
a  sea. 

Captain  O'Hagan  crossed  to  glance  at  the  compass. 
Again  he  marched  to  windward  and  stood  behind  the 
dodger,  peering  over  its  drumming  rim,  ready  to  give 
orders  if  necessity  arose. 

They  were  in  the  track  of  vessels  moving  to  and  from 
the  Atlantic.  Ships  from  the  north  and  south  would 
presently  be  crossing  them  ;  yet,  so  far,  no  lights  had  been 
seen.  Perhaps  O'Hagan  was  more  to  the  south  than  he 
supposed  ;  perhaps  it  was  thicker  than  appeared.  These 
are  matters  on  which  it  was  impossible  to  dogmatise. 
They  form  part  of  the  risk  which  is  ever  present  at  sea. 

One  thing,  however,  was  plain  to  any  intelligence.  The 
sea  was  getting  up,  the  wind  had  increased  and  the  weather 
remained  thick  enough  to  make  men  swear.  There  was 
no  fog  yet,  no  mist ;  only  that  thin  drizzle  which  blots 
out  even  the  smoke-cloud  which  drives  before  a  vessel 
running  with  the  wind.  Dirt,  as  sailors  concisely  put  it. 

This  is  scarcely  a  matter  to  cause  anxiety  to  the  com- 
mander of  a  vessel  to  which  the  quality  of  seaworthiness 
may  be  applied.  It  demands  caution,  a  keen  look-out  and 
the  use  of  the  lead.  O'Hagan  was  prepared  to  pit  his  wit 
against  the  weather.  Dirt,  per  se,  was  not  a  condition  of 
affairs  for  which  he  yearned  ;  still,  it  arrives  and  must  be 
met.  There  is  glory  in  fighting  a  gale,  personal  glory  in 
out-manoeuvring  seas  rolling  to  smash ;  glory  of  the 
highest  in  circumventing  the  devilry  of  fog  and  mist  and 
gale-driven  seas — when  a  man  can  give  his  whole  soul  to 
the  encounter.  But  here  O'Hagan  was  handicapped  from 
the  outset  and  he  knew  it. 

The  ship  swayed  under  him.  She  was  top-heavy. 
Cargo  which  should  have  been  beneath  hatches  cumbered 
the  deck,  and  some  portion  of  it  was  adrift.  The  danger 
was  one  which  scarcely  troubled  O'Hagan  at  that  moment ; 
but  it  would  become  a  burden  if  the  gale  increased,  and 
would  hammer  for  solution  should  those  perils  coincide 
with  the  conditions  known  as  dirt. 

At  dusk  the  sky  had  flared  its  warning  in  lavish  and 
magnificent  colouring.  Red,  amber,  green,  mauve,  purple 
— with  fiery  wisps  smoking  low  across  the  dark ;  the  sea 
a  heated  and  luminous  indigo,  rolling  and  flecked  with 
cressets  of  fire. 


10  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

No  sail  anywhere,  no  land  ;  only  the  Sphinx  climbing, 
lurching,  inscrutable  as  she  lolled  in  her  foam-bed,  the 
sole  spectator  of  that  masterpiece  in  scenic  fury. 

Lonely  she  lay — deserted  even  by  the  gulls  and  molly- 
mauks  which  had  watched  her  gambols.  She  looked  like 
a  dray  carrying  three  altars  for  sacrifice  ;  three  cromlechs, 
one  forward,  one  amidships,  one  aft — a  plume  of  black 
smoke  wind-driven  over  all.  The  horizon  was  dark 
because  of  that  smoke.  It  was  circumscribed  for  the  same 
reason,  yet  was  it  the  essence  of  her  power. 

Her  decks  were  full  of  the  water  she  spilled  over  them  ; 
water  not  still  but  incessantly  charging  and  recoiling, 
bashing  at  the  rail,  eddying  and  aswirl  amidst  the  cases 
of  her  deckload.  Since  she  left  New  York  the  seas  had 
not  ceased  striving  to  lick  her  clean,  to  scrape  the  rust 
from  her  sides.  Sometimes  the  sun  had  peeped  to  tinge 
the  scene,  sometimes  the  stars ;  but  generally  the  dull 
grey-green  of  the  playground  glazed  her  ugliness. 

Now  it  was  black  night  and  the  wash  at  either  end  of  the 
bridge  was  dappled  and  rimmed  with  a  phosphorescent 
glow  which  never  remained  still,  which  never  burned  long, 
which  was  born  and  slain  by  the  lurchings  she  endured. 
With  decks  of  steel,  with  houses  and  rails  of  steel,  each  sea 
that  boarded  her  gave  out  the  note  of  a  monstrous  drum. 
In  the  forecastle,  when  she  plunged,  the  boom  of  it  was 
accompanied  by  a  squelching  squeal  as  the  ports  acknow- 
ledged the  sea  pressure  ;  so,  too,  in  the  bridge  section 
where  lived  the  men  who  drove  her,  kept  her  fires  going 
and  questioned  with  each  reverberating  thud,  "  What  in 
God's  name  is  she  up  to  now  ?  " 

Yet  no  one  came  to  ask.  There  were  men  on  deck  who 
knew  their  business  and  would  call  if  necessity  arose — still, 
that  last  lurching  crash  was  something  to  remember. 
The  engineer  when  he  came  off  watch  at  eight  o'clock 
registered  the  fact  in  his  log  in  red  ink.  One  never  knows 
what  it  may  be  necessary  to  swear  in  evidence. 

This  gale  which  caused  so  much  squirming  was  one  of  the 
sort  for  which  the  clippers  of  old  time  prayed  when  once 
the  Western  Islands  were  passed.  Frequently  they  waited 
a  week  or  more  whistling  for  it — and  when  it  came  they 
ran  smoking  up  Channel,  revelling  in  the  glory  of  it,  the 
fiery  wake  they  drew,  the  hum  and  throb  of  the  wind  roar- 
ing in  rounded  canvas.  Had  she  stun's'ls  ? — out  with 
them  ;  would  the  fores'l  pull  better  with  the  mains'l  lifted 


ALL  HANDS  AHOY !  11 

to  windward  ? — up  with  the  weather  clue  ;  roll  up  that 
crossjack,  down  with  those  stays'ls  there  .  .  .  give  her 
every  stitch  that  will  draw  and  keep  your  eyes  skinned 
forward.  ...  So  she  ripped  before  it,  her  crew  awake, 
swearing  the  girls  had  got  hold  of  her  and  were  pulling  her 
home.  Fifteen,  sixteen  knots  was  her  speed — no  seas  on 
her  deck. 

And  here  came  the  Sphinx — no  sails  set  or  required  ;  a 
monster  carrying  the  freight  of  three  clippers,  laden  to 
the  hatches  and,  by  the  mercy  of  those  who  guide  us,  able 
also  to  carry  a  picking  on  deck.  Eight  knots  was  her 
pace  ;  a  lumbering,  punching,  doddering  eight,  rising  when 
MacAlister  was  on  watch  to  nine  ;  her  breath  lying  in 
great  blobs  of  blackness  upon  the  horizon  obscuring  the 
vision  even  of  so  shrewd  a  skipper  as  young  O'Hagan. 

Ten  o'clock.  The  man  at  the  wheel  left  his  place  and 
struck  it — four  mellow  strokes  ;  but  no  answer  came  from 
forward — neither  the  cry  of  Lascar  nor  British  Jack,  for 
were  not  "  all  hands  "  busy  in  that  cauldron  "  securing 
cargo  "  ?  No  one  on  the  look-out,  no  one  coming  to 
relieve  the  wheel,  no  officer  marching  the  bridge — 
O'Hagan  alone,  keen  in  spite  of  his  all  day  vigil,  keen  in 
spite  of  the  three  days  and  nights  he  had  seen  in  harness 
since  the  weather  began  to  mutter ;  and  a  Cockney  soul 
tired  of  wheel-twisting,  urgent  for  relief. 

Again  the  man  struck  the  bell — this  time  with  bottled 
anger  to  assist  him.  Then  he  looked  out  of  the  wheel- 
house  and  shouted  into  space,  "  I  wants  relief  !  'Ow 
much  longer  d'ye  expeck  a  man  to  stand  grindin' 
'ere  .  .  .  ?  "  He  added  other  comment  which  gave  force 
to  his  argument — fireworks  he  would  have  termed  them, 
things  to  which  a  commander  takes  exception. 

O'Hagan  came  from  his  corner  at  once  and  advanced  to 
the  wheel-house  faster  than  was  consistent  with  dignity. 
The  Sphinx  had  lurched  to  aid  him,  that  is  all ;  but  it 
added  sting  to  his  tongue,  if  that  were  necessary. 

"  Don't  you  let  me  hear  your  voice  like  that  again. 
Don't  you  let  me  hear  you  damning  either  ship  or  crew 
on  my  bridge.  The  men  are  at  work  securing  cargo. 
Take  hold  of  the  wheel  and  wait  till  you  are  relieved.  .  .  ." 

"  I  will — wiv  a  bloomin'  'ook  !  "  said  the  helmsman  in 
the  diction  he  had  learned.  He  gave  the  wheel  a  twist 
and  stood  with  folded  arms,  ready  to  *'  down  tools,"  ready 


12  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

to  "  strike,"  as  he  would  have  termed  it,  ready  to  go  the 
whole  hog  in  defence  of  his  "  rights  "  as  he  understood 
them. 

O'Hagan  moved  round  to  the  wheel-house  door  and 
entered.  He  was  quiet,  for  he  knew  his  strength  ;  he  was 
still,  for  he  knew  how  to  use  it. 

"  Take  hold  of  that  wheel !  "  he  said  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  is  prepared  to  go  all  lengths. 

"  'Oo  the  'ell  are  you — wiv  yer  tike  'old  .  .  .  ?  " 

Cockney  squared  to  attack,  but  O'Hagan  took  him  in 
his  arms  and  planted  him  with  a  thud  against  the  casing 
— "  Take  hold  !  "  he  ordered.  "  No  back  talk  or  I  will 
twist  the  soul  out  of  you.  Quick  !  by  the  Lord  I  mean  it 
—get  hold  !  " 

The  man  drew  breath  with  a  sob  ;  but  he  obeyed.  He 
knew  strength  when  he  met  it.  When  it  was  too  con- 
siderable to  oppose,  he  knuckled  down,  as  he  expressed  it. 
He  looked  up  at  the  big  form  standing  over  him. 

"  A'right,"  he  gave  back,  "  that's  one  to  you.  My  turn'll 
come."  His  voice  shook. 

"  Look  to  your  helm — meet  her  !  "  said  his  captain  and 
passed  to  his  place  on  the  bridge.  He  put  his  whistle  to 
his  lips  and  blew  one  call. 

Then  a  great  sea  rolled  over  the  quarter  and  came 
gurgling  and  eddying  through  the  alley- ways. 

The  Sphinx  swayed  before  this  attack.  She  seemed  of 
two  minds,  uncertain  whether  to  pick  herself  up  again  or 
to  lie  down  and  take  her  ease  ;  undecided  whether  it  was 
worth  while  getting  up  only  to  be  knocked  over  again, 
whether  .  .  . 

Barlow,  the  mate,  came  up  the  bridge  ladder  and  fought 
his  way  to  windward. 

"  One  of  the  men  has  got  knocked  down,"  he  shouted. 
"  I've  taken  him  aft.  His  leg's  broken." 

"  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  Olsen,  sir.     He  was  coming  to  relieve  the  wheel." 

"Very  well.  We  shall  have  to  set  it,"  O'Hagan 
decided,  then  added,  "  Can  you  set  it  ?  " 

"  Afraid  I'm  not  much  use — I  got  my  hand  jammed, 
you  see  .  .  .  right,  too,  sir — a  bit  awkward,  I'm  afraid," 
the  mate  explained. 

"  Got  it  dressed  ?  "  O'Hagan  shouted,  lifting  his  voice 
as  the  wind  set  the  dodger  thrashing.  "  Got  it  dressed  ?  " 
he  repeated,  as  the  mate  stared. 


ALL  HANDS  AHOY!  13 

"  Oh — yes.  That's  all  right,  sir  ;  but  you  see  it  would 
rather  botch  me  at  surgery." 

"  Of  course.  Well,  I  must  go  down.  I  don't  like  the 
look  of  things  out  there,"  he  indicated  the  quarter  whence 
the  wind  roared,  "  but  Steel  can't  get  away.  .  .  .  Yes — I 
must  go  down."  In  his  throat  he  anathematised  the 
necessity.  "  Anyhow,  keep  a  good  look  out  and  have  that 
beast  relieved  from  the  wheel.  She  steers  like  a  barn  in 
his  hands.  Course  is  S.  85°  E.  No  lights  in  sight  .  .  . 
cargo  secure  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  sir — and  won't  be,"  said  the  mate.  "  Some  of 
it's  gone,"  he  added  in  the  voice  of  one  thankful  for  small 
mercies. 

"  Overboard  ?  " 

"  Clean  washed  out  of  her — half  the  port  side  of  her 
with  it." 

"  The  devil !  Well,  note  it  in  the  log.  I  will  get  back 
as  soon  as  I  can."  Again  he  shrugged  over  the  necessity. 
"  Surgery,  by  the  Lord  !  Dressing  abrasions  and  set- 
ting limbs  in  this  kitchen.  .  .  .  Whew !  She  is  rather  a 
beauty." 

O'Hagan  was  wrong  there.  She  was  not  "  rather  " 
anything.  She  was  on  the  contrary,  as  the  mate  at  this 
moment  was  announcing,  a  hog,  a  scatter-brained,  idiotic 
trollop  that  didn't  know  enough  to  keep  herself  warm. 
He  embroidered  the  idea  in  phrases  which  should  have 
sobered  the  trollop,  but  she  answered  him  with  a  sea  which 
spread  gurgling  to  the  bridge. 

And  when  she  had  rolled  herself  free  she  hung  quivering 
with  the  weight  of  that  sea  ;  tilting  a  little,  sidling  a  little, 
puffing  under  the  black  canopy  at  that  solid  top-dressing 
she  had  brought  on  herself. 

The  mate  thrust  his  head  over  the  dodger  and  hailed 
the  forward  well  where  Little  Steel  and  five  others  strove 
to  rectify  the  blunders  of  Whitehall. 

"  Below  there  !  " 

"  Hel-lo  !  " 

"  Anyone  damaged  ...  all  hands  there  ?  " 

"  Right-O  !  All  aboard  the  lugger,"  came  back  in 
reply. 

The  mate  moved  muttering  into  shelter. 

"  I  wish  to  God  it  was  day,"  he  said  in  his  teeth. 


CHAPTER  III 

KISMET 

Squitt'rin'  through  a  blizzard 

Blowin'  just  fer  fun  ; 
Lookin'  out  fer  Lizard 

Feelin'  just  on  done  ; 
Blinded  in  a  stone  black  night 

As  come  to  'elp  us  in  ; 
So  we  crawled  by  Bishop  Light 

An'  never  see  the  glim. 

DAWN  on  the  morning  of  September  14th,  1907.  A 
ragged  split  in  the  eastern  greyness,  low  down  and  tinted 
in  the  yellow-green  of  the  playground.  Wind  steadily 
increasing,  sea  more  lumpy  than  at  nightfall — a  wilderness 
of  hills  all  charging  up  Channel,  all  pressing  after  that 
Sphinx,  which  a  night's  harrying  had  failed  to  hide. 

Human  endurance  flagging,  too,  and  in  the  face  of  it 
Nature  alert  flourishing  the  whip ;  the  god  of  sea  and 
wind  vigorous,  spurring  for  triumph. 

Gaps  were  revealed  to  that  complacent  dawn — gaps 
which  the  sea  had  torn. 

Down  there  before  the  bridge  were  yawning  plates, 
rails  twisted  and  buckled  and  flattened  to  give  entrance 
to  the  sea.  Winches  battered,  iron  twined  and  bent  into 
a  fantastic  image  of  pipes  and  plates  ;  guiding  rods 
plucked  bodily  away,  drumheads  awry.  The  litter  here 
of  torn  cases,  casks  there  which  had  disgorged  their  con- 
tents upon  the  steel  of  the  decks  and  made  them  effec- 
tually slippery.  Tallow,  resin,  chemicals,  ropes,  staves — 
all  spluttering  about  in  a  gurgling  sloppiness.  The  turret 
fronts  were  knee  deep  in  it,  the  hatch  covers  torn  and 
unbattened. 

And  abaft  the  bridge  was  a  replica. 

Work  here  for  a  gang  armed  with  scrapers  and  buckets, 
with  shovels  and  nippers  and  crowbars.  Work  for  men 
with  screwjacks,  chisels,  hammers  and  the  serene  atmo- 
sphere of  a  graving  dock.  But  over  it  all  was  a  vigilant 


KISMET  15 

and  scornful  enemy  ;  the  sea  in  a  rollicking  mood,  laugh- 
ing at  man's  tin-pot  efforts ;  laughing  at  his  armoury  of 
steel  and  girder  and  rod  and  tie,  scoffing  at  the  whole 
thin-strung  gamut  of  defence  swaying  and  plunging  in  the 
trough  of  the  seas. 

Work  for  an  army  of  fitters  if  anything  like  symmetry 
or  protection  were  desired — and  here  crawled  seven  sea- 
wrung  sailormen,  German  and  English — Bottle-fillers  of 
the  Nation.  Men  these  who  should  have  been  taking 
soundings  in  that  maze  of  banks  they  traversed,  who  should 
have  been  divided  into  two  watches,  one  asleep  while  the 
other  worked  ;  men  who  should  have  been  alert,  not  dead 
with  fatigue.  Navigation  was  the  necessity  here,  and  to 
aid  navigation  when  stars  and  sun  are  blotted  out 
soundings  are  essential.  A  definite  track  of  them.  A 
punctuated,  systematic  sequence  of  them,  so  that  the 
bridge  may  judge  by  the  "  casts  "  whither  it  is  heading 
in  the  murk. 

But  here  was  no  time  for  soundings.  All  hands, 
including  now  the  ship's  idlers,  were  pressed  into  the 
business  of  repairing  damages,  re-covering  hatches, 
battening  and  fighting  to  keep  out  "  of  the  cellar  "  which 
yawned,  licking  lips  over  the  morsel  it  visualized. 

Cold  men,  hard  as  nails,  but  sodden,  ready  to  sleep  in 
spite  of  the  sea,  worked  there  in  the  gloom.  Cargo  ?  Let 
it  rip  and  be  damned  to  it,  so  that  it  went  clear  of  the  side. 
Cases  of  machinery  for  reaping  the  fields  ?  Well,  down 
there  they  would  lie  unoiled,  untended,  unpainted,  a 
harbour  for  crustaceans,  a  holdfast  for  limpets  or  barnacles 
— who  cared  what  ?  Casks  of  tallow  ?  Lord  !  that  was 
the  last  thing  in  maladroit  lading.  Too  heavy  to  lumber 
bodily  through  the  gaps,  rotund,  busy  as  a  ball  on  a 
lurching  deck,  swift  as  a  plummet  to  the  laws  of  gravity. 
A  whole  regiment  had  vanished,  but  some  in  fragments 
and  the  slush-spattered  decks  stood  on  the  side  of  Force, 
on  the  side  of  the  gods  who  waited,  Neptune  angry,  Pluto 
brooding,  all  the  galaxy  who  stood  arrayed  against  man  in 
his  fight  with  the  everlasting  sea. 

And  to  them  came  Hermes  with  his  message — 

"  Lash  and  spare  not  !  They  are  tired,  wearied  of  effort. 
They  no  longer  seek  of  the  sea-bed  evidence  of  their  progress. 
The  islands  are  near — they  do  not  see  them.  The  rocks 
stand  sentry— they  heed  them  not.  They  are  torn  and 
battered  and  water  gushes  in  upon  them  from  rents  which  the 


16  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

sea  hath  made.  Some  lie  in  their  beds  with  straight,  stiff 
wood  to  hold  their  limbs  in  place.  They  are  concerned,  0 
Jove,  to  tend  their  wounded,  forgetting  the  crowding  perils 
which  encompass  them.  .  .  . 

"  Therefore,  let  the  winds  blow  !  Call  to  the  rain  god,  call 
to  the  mist  god  .  .  .  to  the  god  of  subtlety  and  stealth  call. 
Let  them  prepare  !  " 

Noon  saw  men  working  waist  high  in  a  spume  which 
never  left  them,  which  was  their  habitat,  even  as  its  com- 
panion the  rain.  Sodden  ?  Oh,  yes.  Wrists  raw  with 
the  chafe  of  oilskins,  knees  stiff  with  salt-water  boils, 
lips  cracked,  hands  cracked,  great  sea-cuts  in  the  bends  of 
toe  and  finger  .  .  .  who  of  them  for  a  champion  ?  Who 
ready  to  stand  and  fight  who  could  scarcely  crawl  for 
batterings  .  .  .  who  had  become  quiet,  a  little  stupid,  per- 
haps, a  little  dazed  by  the  wind-god's  song,  by  the  sea-god's 
drone  ?  Who  of  them  awake  enough  to  see  what  passed  ? 

Then  words  came  on  the  wings  of  the  gale — "  Get  up 
here  a  couple  of  you.  Flags  ready  !  "  and  they  straggled 
to  reply. 

"  Somethin'  comin'  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  Somethin'  in  sight  I     Lord  send  it's  a  mailboat !  " 

A  mailboat  it  was,  blue  in  the  distance  to  leeward,  her 
great  bulk  pushing  through  the  seas  in  a  smother  of  spray  ; 
but  steady,  in  comparison,  as  a  lighthouse. 

"  Get  up  our  number,"  O'Hagan  gave  as  an  order. 
"  Get  out  the  signal,  '  I  desire  to  communicate.'  Quick  ! 
There  are  other  things  to  say  .  .  .  bend  on  and  hoist !  " 

But  the  flags  presently  flicking  aloft  were  end  on — 
unreadable.  Only  the  new  force  was  possible  here — 
wireless,  the  work  of  that  glorious  Italian.  But  for  the 
Tramp  there  is  no  wireless,  no  submarine  method  of 
signalling,*  only  the  flags,  the  old-world  flags  of  Nelson's 
and  Drake's  fine  leisure. 

"  Gone  !  "  said  one  of  the  men,  "  wivout  so  much  as 
damn  yer." 

They  stood  for  a  moment  together  upon  the  bridge  ; 
they  stood  expectant,  perhaps  questioning  whether  that 
racing  ship  would  turn  about  and  come  to  examine  their 
distress.  They  lowered  the  ensign  to  half-mast  and  re- 
mained watching. 

*  An  instrument  set  in  the  bow  for  picking  up  signals  sent  out  by 
Lightships  and  Lighthouses, 


KISMET  it 

Out  of  the  greyness  of  the  north  she  had  come,  into  the 
greyness  of  the  south  she  disappeared  ...  a  mailship 
which  would  kiss  the  eastern  seas. 

"  Down  flags  and  grog  oh  !  "  said  the  mate  as  he  came 
to  them.  "She  was  beyond  us.  Couldn't  see  in  this 
blather." 

"  Naa  .  .  .  not  'er  couldn't,"  one  answered. 

"Lookin'  fer  wots  in  front  of  'im,"  said  another,  "  not 
wot's  be'ind.  I  wish  the  mate  of  'er  'ad  me  by  the 
bloomin'  scruff." 

"  Ja — me  too,  mein  friendt,"  said  a  Hamburger.  "  Go 
on,  get  down  mit  ze  flag  an'  gome  for  a  shmile." 

Back  from  the  bridge  they  clustered,  entered  again  the 
waist,  crept  by  staunchion  and  holdfast  to  the  alley- way, 
where,  in  a  sack  beside  McAlister's  bunk,  was  the  "shmile," 
ready  to  the  chief's  un wounded  hand. 

They  stood  on  a  steampipe  whence  the  platform  had  been 
ripped,  dodging  the  sprays,  leaping  before  seas,  and  in 
turn  swallowed  their  portion.  Good  ?  Lord  !  it  made 
men  of  them — for  half  an  hour.  Then  again  came  inertia, 
sleep,  weariness,  bemused  faculties,  the  strain  and  torture 
of  bruises  sans  rest. 

Three  o'clock,  four  o'clock  saw  them  still  fighting,  still 
dragging  at  lashings,  passing  along  planks,  nailing, 
battening,  sheathing,  while  light  remained.  Then  in  the 
half  dusk,  a  squall  towering  over  them,  Bill  Smith  lost  his 
hold  and  came,  heaped  up,  to  leeward — as  though  he  dived. 

And  to  greet  him  was  the  steel  of  ravaged  bulwarks 
through  which  the  sea  grinned  and  sent  specimens  for 
tasting. 

Small  hope  for  man  in  such  straits,  small  chance  even 
where  hospitals  stand  ready  and  surgeons  live  at  the  end  of 
a  telephone  wire.  Here  mere  waste  of  time,  waste — waste 
.  .  .  yet  was  he  disentangled  from  the  cage  which  had 
received  him  and  carried  through  leaping  seas,  shoulder 
high  to  the  cabin.  And  then  for  Captain  O'Hagan's 
dexterity,  for  his  sense  of  touch,  the  fine  drawn  essentials 
of  surgery  in  the  hands  of  a  man  a  week  without  rest — if 
by  rest  you  understand  sleep  in  bed  between  sheets  or 
blankets  and  no  soul-torture  of  doubt  to  disturb  you,  no 
drum-note  to  awake  you  to  the  swish  of  seas  tumbling  in 
the  well. 

Snatches  of  sleep  come  to  all  men,  on  the  bridge,  at  the 
B.  P.  c 


18  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

wheel,  aloft — after  a  certain  consumption  of  vitality  and 
expenditure  of  force.  The  wind  roar  alone  is  sufficient  to 
bring  drowsiness,  the  sting  of  it  on  face  and  eyes  and 
mouth  a  certain  draw  ;  but  when  to  that  is  added  the 
sodden  misery  of  wet  clothes,  of  cold,  of  seas  which  are 
always  struggling  to  flatten  man  out,  then  in  spite  of  all 
hazards  sleep  comes  in  snatches. 

Necessarily  in  face  of  these  handicaps  Bill  Smith  failed 
to  recover  consciousness.  So  they  strapped  him  to  the 
settee  and  got  out  on  deck  to  face  what  came. 

Darkness  came.  An  intolerable  drone  of  wind  and 
patter  of  rain  and  hail — perhaps  sleet  ?  Who  knows  ? 

Darkness  came.  Darkness  which  could  be  felt.  Seven 
o'clock  came,  and  with  it  a  cup  of  tea  steaming  from  the 
donkey-room  where  men  had  brewed  it. 

O'Hagan  sat  against  an  angle  of  the  bridge  beside  the 
dodger.  A  canvas  sling  supported  him,  and  about  his 
middle  was  a  lashing  of  rope. 

"  Here  you  are,  sir,  try  this  cup,"  said  the  voice  of  one 
who  brought  it. 

"Eh?  Eh?  What's  —  that  ?"  O'Hagan  started 
visibly,  shocked  because  of  this  drowsiness,  a  lapse  which 
all  men  might  see. 

"  Tea,  sir — a  good  strong  cup.  .  .  ." 

"  Ah  .  .  .  thanks.  Yes  ...  by  Jove  though,  I 
believe  I  dozed.  Barlow  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Did  I  doze  ?  "  he  questioned  again,  "  did  you  notice 
whether  I  dozed  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  Why,  a  minute  ago  you  told  me  to  get  a  cast 
of  the  lead." 

"  Aye,  of  course  .  .  .  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  I  wasn't  able,"  said  the  mate.  "  The  machine  is 
washed  out  of  her." 

O'Hagan  received  this  with  the  same  apathy  that  had 
been  noticeable  in  his  acceptance  of  the  tea.  It  was  plain 
to  see  that  he  was  worn  out,  yet  because  he  could  not 
insist  on  this  aspect,  Barlow  decided  not  to  touch  it,  but 
droned  on,  his  head  tilted  to  assist  the  words — "  She's  a 
beast  with  this  new  loadline,  in  any  case,  but  with  a 
deckload  thrown  in,  she's  dangerous,"  he  raved.  "  I've 
been  in  her  since  she  was  launched  .  .  .  but  this  is  my 
last  trip.  I'll  have  to  find  another  job.  .  .  ." 


KISMET  19 

"  Eigh  I     That  shouldn't  be  hard,  Barlow.  .  .  ." 

"  No,  sir — no,  I  agree  there.  It's  easier  than  it  was,  if 
your  papers  are  clean."  He  returned  doggedly  to  the 
plaint  that  the  sounding  machine  had  been  swept  out  of 
her.  He  announced  that  a  fact  of  that  sort  spoke  volumes 
to  a  man  who  knew  the  ship  before,  "  Why,  sir,  that  gale 
off  Hatteras  the  trip  before  you  joined  us  would  have 
blown  this  to  a  standstill ;  but  she  didn't  kick  up  this 
dido." 

"  Pick  up  who  ?  " 

"  Didn't  make  this  mess,  sir,"  Barlow  growled,  his  back 
to  the  wind  as  a  squall  broke  screaming  over  them. 

"  No,  no  ...  Yes,  it  is  a  mess,"  O'Hagan  assented. 
"  I  shall  take  her  into  Falmouth  if  the  weather  is  no  better 
at  daybreak.  How  are  the  pumps  going  ?  " 

"  Holding  our  own,  McAlister  tells  me,  no  more." 

"  Hum  !  And  you  think  she  was  dryer  in  the  old  days, 
eh?" 

'  Not  a  doubt  of  it." 

"  If  we  had  a  receiver  in  her  nose  *  I  shouldn't  worry," 
O'Hagan  admitted.  "  I  can't  understand  why  we  have 
seen  nothing.  Gad  !  "  he  faced  the  grey-haired  mate 
with  a  gust  of  anger,  "  it's  rather  a  change  from  the 
Eastern  Mail." 

"  I'll  bet  it  is,"  Barlow  agreed.  "  I  should  like  to  have 
the  Plaster  Saint  lashed  down  on  our  main  hatch  to 
see  it." 

"  The  Plaster  who  ?  " 

"  Saint,  sir  ...  Board  of  Trade,  you  know." 

"  Aye !  I  had  forgotten.  Getting  a  bit  fuzzy,  I 
suppose."  He  crossed  to  his  corner  and  stood  staring 
over  the  dodger.  He  had  heard  Jimmy  Barlow  on  this 
theme  before  and  knew  every  anathema  he  could  utter. 
He  refused  to  be  bothered  with  Plaster  Saints.  The  ship 
held  him.  Straight  ahead  was  the  smoke-cloud  they  made 
but  could  not  see.  Sometimes  the  blunt  angle  of  the  ship's 
bow  soared  high  as  a  sea  creamed  past  them,  sometimes 
it  sank  as  though  the  Sphinx  had  decided  to  take  a  header 
and  end  matters.  She  rolled  as  she  burrowed  and  she 
rolled  as  she  climbed.  Rails  down  she  scooped  at  the 
seas  and  the  seas  answered  her,  flicking  pieces  from  her, 
whittling  her  for  assault. 

*  Submarine  signal  apparatus. 

C2 


20  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

Suddenly  O'Hagan  stumbled  against  the  dodger  and  in 
a  moment  he  understood  that  again  he  had  dozed.  That 
was  terrible.  He  dared  not  give  way  to  it,  he  dared  not 
give  way.  He  said  it  in  his  teeth,  his  brain  dizzy  at  the 
notion.  He  called  to  the  mate  and  shouted  behind  a 
curved  hand  precisely  as  though  no  interval  had  elapsed — 
"  That  handicaps  us " 

Barlow  twisted  to  hear  more  plainly.  O'Hagan 
repeated  the  phrase  and  added — "  We  shall  have  to  stop 
her  and  use  the  hand  lead.  We  have  one,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes — yes  ...  I  see — yes,  in  my  room,  sir." 

"  Better  send  Steel  up  here  and  bring  it  into  the  chart- 
room.  I  must  work  her  up  ...  ought  to  be  in  touch 
with  the  Bishop  or  St.  Agnes  before  this.  If  we  could  get 
a  few  soundings  it  might  tell  us  something." 

The  mate  moved  off  acknowledging  the  necessity,  but 
dubious  of  the  result.  Steel  climbed  to  the  bridge  and 
O'Hagan  was  free  to  examine  his  charts. 

With  compasses  and  parallel  ruler,  with  bemused 
faculties  and  the  stiffness  brought  by  contact  with  wind 
and  cold,  he  went  over  their  course  from  that  point  which 
figured  in  his  brain  as  "  my  departure."  He  stooped 
over  the  crisp  figured  sheet  examining  the  dots  and 
splashes  of  red  which  mark  the  lighthouses  and  stood  back 
tapping  with  his  pencil. 

"  Bishop  Rock  abeam  at  six-fifty,"  that  was  his  thought, 
"  distance  about  eight  miles."  It  was  now  nearly 
eight  o'clock  and  no  light  had  been  seen.  "  Curious  !  " 

That  might  mean  they  were  farther  south  than  he 
imagined,  or  it  might  mean  that  a  haze  lay  over  the  land 
and  the  lights  were  not  visible  at  full  range.  Still,  eight 
miles  !  Soundings  were  necessary  .  .  .  but  the  machine 
was  gone  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 

The  mate  entered  and  found  him  leaning  over  the  chart, 
his  face  very  near  his  hands  ;  but  he  looked  up  quickly  and 
gave  the  result  of  his  calculations. 

Barlow  agreed  that  there  should  not  be  much  haze  with 
this  wind.  "  Much  more  likely  we  are  bein'  set  to  the 
southard,  sir.  If  we  had  been  '  in  any '  *  we  should  have 
come  across  vessels  bound  west,"  he  argued,  "  but  we've 
seen  none." 

This  could  not  be  denied.     That  they  were  off  the  line 

*  Inside  the  course. 


KISMET  21 

of  shipping  was  plain.  "  Still,"  O'Hagan  decided,  "  I 
shall  not  haul  in.  We  shall  make  the  Lizard  anyhow. 
We  can't  pass  that  unless  we  are  in  mid-channel.  Try  a 
cast  of  the  lead.  I'll  stop  her.  You  will  have  to  get  all 
hands  on  it." 

He  returned  to  the  bridge  while  the  two  mates,  with  those 
who  were  fit,  crept  aft  and  stood  clinging  to  the  rigging 
until  the  ship  no  longer  had  way.  Then,  fumbling  over 
the  torn  rails,  scrambling  under  lashings  they  had  placed, 
they  approached  the  lee  quarter,  cast  the  lead  and  stood 
to  haul  it  inboard. 

Somebody  chanted  a  minor  song  of  the  sea  as  they  pulled 
and  the  sea  leaped  up  to  look  upon  its  children.  Not 
quiet  yet  ?  Still  moving  .  .  .  still  squirming  ?  Phit ! 
The  sea  sent  a  messenger  to  brush  them  away ;  but  the 
Sphinx  dodged  it,  wallowing  in  the  splash  it  made.  It 
drenched  those  sodden  workers,  made  them  clutch  and 
gasp  and  swear,  but  presently  the  song  broke  out  again 
and  the  lead  came  home. 

They  moved  towards  the  bridge  carrying  it  and,  being 
gifted  with  the  eyesight  of  all  wild  things,  reached  it  just 
as  a  roller  creamed  under  them,  pushing  the  stern  high, 
high,  as  though  the  Sphinx  had  at  last  made  up  her  mind 
for  the  dive ;  then  with  a  sulky  inclination  stooped  and 
scooped  the  crest  as  a  trophy.  For  fifteen  minutes  they 
had  remained  without  the  turn  of  a  propeller  ;  now,  stung 
to  life  by  the  salt  sea  tang  the  small  group  climbed  back 
to  the  bridge  and  handed  their  report.  At  this  ebullition 
of  the  sea  they  jeered.  Were  they  not  wet  already  ? 

"  Fifty- two  fathoms,  sand  and  shell,"  said  the  mate. 
"-Two  casts  in  the  hour  will  be  about  our  limit ;  and  now 
you  have  it,  sir,  it  may  be  fifty-two  or  fifty-three  or  fifty- 
one.  The  Lord  knows  which." 

Plainly  the  mate  looked  upon  the  precaution  as  high- 
flown  nonsense,  suitable  if  you  had  a  machine  and  need 
not  stop  ;  but  useless  in  such  conditions  as  those  they  faced. 
A  waste  of  time  and  strength.  O'Hagan  passed  into  the 
chart-room  in  his  company.  They  carried  the  arming  for 
reference.  Sand  and  shell,  fine  and  coarse  sand  mixed 
with  broken  shell.  That  was  their  guide. 

They  searched  along  the  track  they  had  come  for  this 
magic  figure,  52 — s,  sh,  and  found  it.  In  a  dozen  places 
O'Hagan  found  it.  Off  Ushant  was  52 — s,  sh,  off  Bishop, 
off  the  Wolf  51 — s,  sh,  off  Lizard  52 — s,  sh,  in  mid-channel, 


22  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

O'Hagan  replaced  the  chart,  covered  the  light  and  went 
out. 

"  A  solitary  cast  like  that,"  said  the  mate,  "  is  no  guide. 
And  we're  all  dead  beat." 

"  I  admit  it.  Still,  we  had  to  see  whether  it  could  be 
worked.  No — it's  too  dangerous  as  things  are  and — and 
the  men  must  get  a  rest."  O'Hagan  spoke  with  new 
briskness.  He  turned  to  the  second  mate.  "  Away  and 
get  a  sleep,  Mr.  Steel.  We  shall  want  you  up  here  at 
eight  bells.  Mr.  Barlow,  if  you  care  to  take  an  hour  or  so 
in  the  chart-room  do  so.  I  will  take  a  spell  up  here." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  chief,  "  I'll  keep  my  watch.  I'm  not 
dead  beat  as  you  are  .  .  .  better  take  a  few  hours  yourself 
sir — she  can't  hurt  this  side  of  mornin'  .  .  .  won't  you  go 
down,  sir  ? 

"  Thanks,  Barlow.     No— I  guess  I'll  stay." 

Nine  o'clock.  Less  wind,  less  rain,  a  more  definite  haze 
over  those  shallows  which  block  the  Atlantic's  sweep, 
hold  up  its  swell  and  break  its  seas.  Nine  o'clock.  A 
curious,  far-away  sound.  Somebody  striking  a  bell  some- 
where. Somebody  as  certainly  standing  near.  Some- 
body ..."  Good  Lord  !  What's  that  ?  " 

O'Hagan,  alert  again  and  vigorously  asserting  the  fact, 
glared  at  the  man  who  stood  over  him. 

"  That  you,  Barlow  ?  .  .  .  why,  where  ..." 

"  You  are  dead  beat,  sir.  She  shook  you  out  of  it  easy 
as  shellin'  peas — better  get  inside  and  lie  down,  sir.  .  .  ." 

O'Hagan  staggered  to  his  feet  and  stood  swaying. 

"  Any  lights  about  .  .  .  anything  in  sight  ?  "  he  ques- 
tioned. 

"  No,  sir — nothing.  She's  to  the  southard,  in  mid- 
channel,  like  as  not.  It  won't  do  for  us  all  to  be  knocked 
out  together." 

Again  O'Hagan  swayed  and  would  have  fallen,  but 
Jimmy  Barlow  gripped  his  arm  and  supported  him. 

"  Lord  !  I  believe  I  am  done  this  time !  "  O'Hagan 
grumbled.  "  Luck,  eh  ?  " 

"  Get  a  sleep,  sir.  Five  or  six  hours  would  do  you  no 
end  of  good  and  there's  nothing  to  hinder  it,  unless,  of 
course,"  said  the  mate,  "  you  don't  care  to  leave  me  in 
charge  of  her." 

"  Barlow,"  said  O'Hagan,  "  I  didn't  think  of  that— but 
I'm  captain  you  see,  and  I  want  to  be  on  deck  when  we 


KISMET  23 

make  the — the  land.  It's  thicker,  isn't  it  ?  Yes,  I'm 
sure  of  it — and  there's  less  wind.  That's  better.  Well, 
you  will  have  to  sound  our  horn  if  it  gets  worse.  You 
know  the — the  course,  eh  ?  "  He  spoke  with  the  thickened 
accent  of  one  stupid,  drugged,  drunken  for  want  of  sleep. 
Then  quite  suddenly  he  collapsed. 

Barlow  and  a  man  he  summoned  carried  him  without 
struggles  to  the  chart-room.  They  removed  his  oilskins 
and  sea-boots.  He  made  no  effort  to  stay  them.  They 
placed  him  upon  a  settee  which  ran  beside  one  bulkhead. 
They  pulled  up  the  weather  board  and  fixed  it,  placed  a 
pillow  beneath  his  head,  covered  him,  put  out  the  light  and 
shut  the  door  upon  him. 

Then  again  Jimmy  Barlow  went  on  deck  and  took 
charge. 

Ten  o'clock.  The  wind  failing  somewhat  and  backing 
to  the  south.  Low-strung  clouds  racing  like  smoke  from 
the  same  quarter,  spume  still  mingled  with  the  drizzle 
but  lacking  sting,  lacking  the  shot-like  precision  which 
makes  it  deadly.  No  ships  in  sight,  no  lights  of  any 
character.  A  rather  drowsy  hour  following  so  close  on 
the  burr  of  the  gale.  A  rather  somnolent  personage  at 
the  wheel,  another  at  the  look-out  .  .  .  nothing  in  sight, 
nothing  to  keep  them  alert,  the  man  on  the  look-out 
obviously  dozing. 

Barlow  moved  up  and  down  using  his  glasses.  He  had 
better  have  trusted  his  naked  vision.  There  is  nothing 
which  tires  a  tired  man  more  completely  than  the  unin- 
telligent use  of  night  glasses.  No  Bishop  Rock,  no  St. 
Agnes ;  and  now,  by  the  Lord  Harry  I  no  Wolf.  They  were 
out  of  the  range  of  everything — clean  out.  It  was  thick, 
but  there  were  no  fog  signals.  Nothing  but  their  own 
brazen  outcry,  and  that  fell  flat,  as  though  it  were  sounded 
in  a  well. 

Barlow  plodded  on.  Up  and  down,  down  and  up.  The 
bridge  swayed  to  port,  then  swayed  to  starboard.  It 
hung  longer  to  this  latter.  It  gave  him  a  push  which 
settled  him  in  a  corner  behind  the  dodger  and  for  ten 
minutes  Jimmy  Barlow  dozed. 

The  steam  whistle  brayed  automatically  over  them,  and 
every  time  it  brayed  there  came  a  stir  of  activity  at  each 
corner  of  the  bridge  and  in  the  wheel-house.  Then  after 
a,  season,  perhaps  at  eleven  o'clock,  it  ceased  to  bray,  and 


24  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

there  sounded  afar  off  the  ghost  of  a  signal,  a  dim,  sunken 
note,  first  high,  then  low. 

Neither  Jimmy  Barlow  nor  the  look-out  heard  that 
signal — if  signal  it  were.  The  man  grinding  at  the  wheel 
was  perhaps  the  most  alert  of  the  trio.  You  cannot  hold 
a  kicking  wheel  and  sleep  without  learning  that  you  have 
slept.  Yet  dozing  or  alert  the  man  at  the  wheel  heard 
nothing. 

The  Sphinx,  true  to  her  calling,  plunged  wallowing  in  a 
.sea  which  no  longer  stung  her.  She  drew  a  wake  once 
more.  Something  had  happened  to  the  sea.  .  .  .  Up 
there  for  the  fraction  of  a  minute  surely  was  a  red  glow. 
No  ?  The  fog  moved  denser  to  give  it  the  lie.  It  hid  the 
light  precisely  as  it  lapped  the  coast  with  cotton-wool. 
It  was  that  which  deadened  the  sob  of  the  horns. 

Nine  knots  !  McAlister  on  watch  for  a  dollar,  pushing 
her  round,  getting  the  last  ounce  out  of  her  steam.  The 
black  squad  who  worked  with  him  shut  down  out  of  reach 
of  the  sea,  hot  when  those  matelot  people  shivered,  dry 
when  they  were  wet.  "  Give  her  beans,  sons  !  Good  for 
you — walk  her  through  it  for  the  Ratcliff  'Ighway,  walk 
her  along  1 " 

And  the  Sphinx  answered  to  their  call  in  strangely  still 
seas.  A  swell  existed  which  caused  her  to  lurch  and  sway 
as  before  ;  but  seas  no  longer  broke  heavily  on  deck. 

The  men  sheltering  to  leeward  of  the  fidleys  might  have 
explained  the  difference ;  but  they  did  not  perceive  it. 
Like  the  sea  and  the  Sphinx  and  the  horn  which  had 
brayed  over  them,  all  those  who  were  on  watch  seemed  to 
doze. 

Twelve  o'clock.  Eight  bells,  thank  God!  The  hour 
when  men  go  below  and  turn  in  for  honest  sleep,  the  sleep 
they  have  earned. 

The  man  who  steered  leaned  out  of  his  window  and 
struck  it.  There  followed  an  echo,  very  precise,  very  near. 
Something  aroused  Jimmy  Barlow,  the  grey-haired  mate, 
and  as  he  stumbled  from  his  seat  a  sound  quivered  which 
for  ten  minutes  had  been  audible.  A  horn  giving  two 
notes — high,  low,  but  far  off,  very  far  off. 

Jimmy  Barlow  decided  this  as  he  crossed  swiftly  to  the 
compass  to  localize  it.  He  was  confused.  His  senses  were 
dim.  "Far  off,"  he  said  again,  "and  where  away  ?"  He 
waited  two  minutes.  No  sound  disturbed  him.  Again 


KISMET  25 

two  minutes,  and  then  once  more  the  signal  he  expected — 
but  out  there,  to  the  south,  far,  far  in  the  south. 

He  twisted  the  binnacle  top  and  took  a  rough  bearing 
of  the  sound.  "  South-east  .  .  .  absurd  !  "  said  Jimmy 
Barlow.  "  That's  caused  by  the  fog.  Deflection  there 
anyhow  .  .  .  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  we  hear  it  some- 
where else  presently." 

But  he  heard  it  again  as  before. 

The  Sphinx  pounded  on  her  way  insensible  to  the  por- 
tents as  were  her  crew. 

Dim,  far  off,  blurred,  the  signal  fell  on  the  ears  of  the 
listening  mate.  His  faculties  were  coming  to  his  aid. 
He  became  alert.  Vast  possibilities  loomed  suddenly  in 
the  haze  through  which  they  bored.  What  if  it  were 
true  ?  What  if  there  were  no  deflection  ?  "  Then,  then 
...  oh  !  by  the  Lord,  no." 

And  still  the  Sphinx  pounded  on  her  way  insensible  to 
the  portents  which  stood  over  her. 

Barlow  came  from  the  compass  burdened  by  a  new 
thought.  It  occurred  to  him  that  a  fresh  note  was  in 
being,  something  connected  with  their  march  through 
space.  He  listened,  leaning  over  the  bridge  rail  and  heard 
a  rush  as  of  waves  breaking ;  a  long  drawn  hiss  which 
could  only  be  made  by  a  vessel  drawing  astern,  or  by  the 
surf. 

He  moved  to  the  whistle  and  pulled  the  cord.  The 
blast  it  gave  produced  an  echo — plainly  near,  plainly 
overhead. 

Then  Jimmy  Barlow  recognised  his  danger  and  jumped 
into  the  wheel-house  to  avert  it.  "  Wheel  over,  there  ! 
Hard  a-port  .  .  .  over  with  her  .  .  .  over  with  her  !  " 

The  helmsman  seemed  to  consider  his  officer  mad,  but 
Jimmy  Barlow  reached  the  bridge,  and  at  one  turn  set  the 
engine-room  telegraph  at  full  speed  astern.  Then  again 
he  vanished,  this  time  to  call  his  commander. 

The  helmsman  leaned  on  the  wheel  grumbling  anathe- 
mas. "  'Ow  long  was  ee  to  bloomin'  well  keep  'er  'ard 
hover  ?  The  bloomin'  mate  was  like  a  bloomin'  paper 
man  in  a  squall  .  .  .  "  ;  but  the  mate  in  question  entered 
the  chart-room  and  shook  O'Hagan  without  ceremony. 
"  Quick,  sir  ...  out  on  deck  !  "  he  shouted.  "  She's 
head  first  into  somethin'  .  .  .  head  first.  Yes,  and  by 
God  !  it's  my  fault.  I  dozed." 

He  came  out  to  watch  the  Sphinx  swing.     The  engines 


26  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

no  longer  throbbed  ;  but  they  were  not  going  astern.  In 
the  arena  where  steam  is  lord,  it  is  recognised  that  you 
cannot  switch  from  full  speed  ahead  to  full  speed  astern 
without  playing  the  devil  with  your  machine.  That  is  a 
sine  qua  non — therefore  the  mode  is  more  leisurely. 

And  Jimmy  Barlow  stood  to  watch  her  swing,  imagining 
she  was  slowing ;  imagining  brick  walls,  reefs,  shoals — 
waiting  for  the  blow.  His  eyes  were  blinded  now,  but  not 
by  sleep.  He  stood  gripping  the  rail,  his  teeth  clenched. 
"  What  lay  out  there  in  the  mist  ahead  of  them  ?  What 
were  the  odds  that  she  would  twist  clear." 

There  were  no  odds. 

The  Sphinx  answered  by  swinging  him  past  unseen 
cliffs  ;  cliffs  which  seemed  to  stand  over  the  ship,  but 
without  touching  her.  The  god  of  the  underworld  had 
done  his  work  well.  The  cliffs  were  wrapped  in  mist. 
The  rocks  which  lay  off  them  were  decently  screened. 
Nothing  visible  to  scare  a  man  from  his  place  on  the 
bridge. 

She  came  round  in  a  smother  of  spume  and,  before  the 
engines  had  mastered  her,  butted  at  the  rocks  and  sud- 
denly stopped.  Butted  and  in  a  moment  lay  over  guzzling 
the  brine,  stretching  after  that  star  which  in  her  lifetime 
it  had  been  impossible  to  win. 

A  solitary  rocket  soared  presently  into  the  fog  and  broke 
in  a  shower  high  up  as  the  Sphinx  tilted  sidelong  upon  her 
bed. 


Phase  the  Second 
The  Sentence 


CHAPTER  I 

A    CHALLENGE 

The  Council  Hall  is  dim,  is  dim, 

A  Judge  sits  glum  to  claw, 
Some  lawyers  stand  the  case  to  trim, 

A  Sailor  waits  in  awe  .  .  . 

For  you  have  no  right  to  get  on  the  rocks, 

And  you  hace  no  call  to  collide, 
You're  supposed  to  keep  on  top  with  your  box, 

And  never  to  sleep  when  outside, 

THE  Jake  Hall  of  Notherton  was  engaged,  therefore  on 
January  the  fifteenth  there  commenced  in  an  adjacent 
building  the  trial  of  one  of  the  Nation's  Bottle-fillers  for 
the  loss  of  his  ship. 

It  was  not  termed  a  trial  by  those  who  took  part  in  it, 
but  an  inquiry,  which  sounds  better ;  and  the  defendant 
was  called  neither  a  Bottle-filler,  which  suggests  a  pub- 
lican, nor  a  captain,  which  suggests  an  officer.  They 
called  him  Mr.  Denis  O'Hagan,  master  of  the  S.S.  Sphinx, 
otherwise  were  no  vagaries. 

The  room  was  close.  A  commendable  twilight  brooded 
between  browned  windows.  The  men  who  stood  and  sat 
at  the  long  table,  which  occupied  so  much  floor-space, 
partook  of  their  surroundings.  They  seemed  drowsy, 
tired,  ready  to  scuttle  off  home  and  get  to  bed  ;  but  that 
was  impossible.  The  hour  forbade  sleep,  although  it 
encouraged  it.  The  men  remained  fumbling  with  ques- 
tions, seeking  to  discover  the  cause  of  this  catastrophe 
which  had  brought  them  together. 

Ranged  on  two  sides  of  the  room  were  chairs  standing 
against  the  wall  in  readiness  for  those  members  of  the 
public  who  desired  to  be  present  at  the  hearing  ;  but  with 
the  exception  of  a  small  cluster  of  witnesses  grouped 
together  immediately  behind  the  lawyers  engaged  on  the 
case,  no  one  had  sought  admission. 

The  room  was  a  court  without  any  of  its  appurtenances. 
One  entered  it  from  a  blind  alley  abutting  on  a  main  street 


30  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

where  electric  cars  rumbled  in  a  yellow  gloom.  The  door 
was  guarded  by  two  policemen  who  were  prepared,  if 
required,  to  admit  any  member  of  the  public  who  wished 
to  enter.  But  there  were  no  robes,  no  gowns,  no  wigs,  no 
scandal — nothing  savouring  in  any  degree  of  the  law's 
omnipotence  ;  nothing  to  attract  a  man  from  the  street ; 
nothing  to  thrill  him  ;  nothing  to  warrant  the  production 
of  pictures  or  great  headlines  in  the  papers  he  read. 

Yet  a  captain  in  the  British  Merchant  Service  stood  on 
trial  here  for  the  loss  of  his  ship.  Officially,  the  proceed- 
ings were  known  as  "  An  Inquiry,"  which  at  all  events 
suggests  that  calm  state  of  suspended  judgment  which  it 
is  our  boast  at  post-prandial  speeches  to  depict.  Yet 
when  you  consider  the  punishments  meted  out,  Trial 
seems  the  more  appropriate  designate.  At  all  events, 
that  may  be  taken  as  the  view  of  Captain  O'Hagan  and 
Jimmy  Barlow,  master  and  mate  of  that  box  of  engineering 
mysteries  known  now  only  as  a  star  on  the  British  Wreck 
Chart,  but  once  as  the  S.S.  Sphinx. 

Now  there  were  two  magistrates  sitting  with  assessors 
to  hear  this  matter.  The  junior  was  a  retired  school- 
master, a  scholar  of  definite  attainments  ;  but  the  senior, 
whose  province  it  would  be  to  pass  judgment,  was  one  of 
those  persons  who,  had  he  been  questioned,  would  have 
admitted  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the  sea.  It  is  entirely 
credible  also  that  he  had  but  a  bowing  acquaintance  with 
the  law.  He  was  accustomed,  as  was  his  confrere,  to  a 
prompter  who  sat,  when  he  was  adjudicating  on  the  drunk 
and  disorderly,  as  town  clerk,  to  advise  him  ;  and  when 
he  was  hearing  inquiries,  as  twin  assessors — men  grown  old 
in  the  service  of  the  sea. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  chairman,  sitting  in  the  centre 
seat  on  this  bench,  was  one  of  those  personages  whom 
authority  had  knighted  because,  in  a  world  of  competition, 
he  had  succeeded  in  amassing  a  fortune  by  selling  knick- 
knacks.  Inadvertently  he  had,  of  course,  expunged  quite 
a  number  of  smaller  knickknack  sellers.  To  be  quite 
accurate  he  was  an  importer  who  knew  what  the  nation 
wanted  and  provided  it  without  stint ;  but  he  knew  no 
more  of  the  sea,  the  men  who  navigate  the  ships,  and 
the  cargoes  they  carry  than  may  be  gleaned  from  an 
acquaintance  with  bills  of  lading. 

In  theory,  of  course,  the  two  nautical  assessors  were 


A  CHALLENGE  31 

here  to  put  him  right  on  all  technical  points,  precisely  as 
a  town  clerk  sat  beneath  him  to  advise  on  questions  of  law 
in  those  other  courts  over  which  he  presided.  But  theory 
is  a  jug  which  in  practice  rarely  holds  water.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  put  into  the  mind  of  a  man,  be  he  never  so  able, 
the  knowledge  which  it  has  taken  a  lifetime  for  another 
to  acquire.  He  can  but  assimilate  a  part,  even  from 
assessors  who  are  gifted.  What  he  may  gather  from  those 
who  are  somnolent  may  be  known,  perhaps,  at  the  Bar  of 
a  Court  which,  one  day,  all  men  will  attend. 

It  was  a  grey  day.  Outside  there  was  fog — the  heavy, 
yellow  fog  of  a  great  city ;  inside  there  was  fog  also — the 
fog  physical  and  fog  mental ;  fog  which  made  dim  the 
lights  and  rolled  oppression  on  faculties  already  tired  by 
argument. 

The  assessors  especially  seemed  to  find  the  conditions 
provocative.  One  of  them  was  very  old  and  very  tired ; 
the  other  hale,  but  a  trifle  deaf  and  without  experience 
of  service  in  Tramps  of  the  Sphinx  class.  He  seemed 
inclined  indeed  to  resent  the  fact  that  Tramps  exist.  He 
punctuated  the  inquiry  with  staccato  cries  of,  "  What  ? 
What  ?  " — hand  at  ear.  And  O'Hagan  faced  this  tribunal 
seeking  to  explain  conditions  which  had  weighed  him  down 
when  in  command  of  his  ship. 

It  is  always  difficult  to  reproduce  tragedy  in  the  bland 
environment  of  a  court ;  but  in  so  stagnant  an  atmosphere 
the  difficulty  was  intensified.  For  that  reason,  then,  if 
for  no  other,  O'Hagan  was  once  more  on  his  feet  seeking  to 
make  clear  why  he  had  not  been  on  the  bridge  at  the  time 
of  the  catastrophe.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  a  detailed 
explanation  when  the  elder  of  the  two  assessors  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  quite  confidently  gave  vent  to  a 
sound  which  is  usually  known  as  snoring.  His  white 
beard  was  lifted,  his  head  rolled. 

O'Hagan  turned  upon  him  with  a  note  of  annoyance 
which  seemed  to  suggest  that  he  had  lost  sight  of  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  Bottle-filler. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  explaining  technicalities  to  an 
assessor  who  is  asleep  ?  "  he  cried  out. 

"  What  ?  What  ?  "  exclaimed  his  brother  assessor, 
with  hand  curved  to  convey  sound. 

Somebody  pinched  the  sleeper,  who  awoke  with  a  jerk, 
and  O'Hagan's  adviser  said — "  I  really  must  call  attention 
to  the  fact  that  .  ,  ." 


32  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

Then  the  chairman,  wriggling  judicially  with  finger  in 
ear,  intervened  with  bland  comprehension.  "  Yes,  yes," 
he  said,  "  the  atmosphere  of  the  court  is  heavy — a — 
unwarrantably  heavy  .  .  .  and — a — to  open  the  windows 
would  make  it  no  better.  I  shall  make  a  note  of  it  and 
send  it  to  the — a — proper  authority  when  I  have  done 
with  this  case." 

He  leaned  forward  when  he  had  pronounced  this  for- 
mula, and  scribbled  with  a  quill  which  spluttered.  Then 
he  looked  up  and  said  brusquely  to  O'Hagan  : — 

"  You  were  saying  something  about  it  being  impossible 
to  remain  on  duty  longer  than  you  did.  I  don't  pretend 
to  understand  why — yet ;  but  I  have  no  doubt  from  what 
has  fallen — a — hitherto,  that  you  committed  a  blunder  in 
leaving  the  bridge  when  you  did." 

"  You  seem  to  think,"  O'Hagan  urged  with  a  gust  of 
impatience,  "  that  a  man  can  remain  on  watch  for  ever. 
You  take  the  view  that  if  he  goes  down  to  rest  he  is  guilty 
of  carelessness  or  wrorse.  I  can't  see  how  you  can  expect 
a  man  to  remain  keen  after  twenty -four  hours  of  it — and 
I  had  been  on  the  bridge  for  thirty-two  without  a  break. 
I  was  not  fit  for  more.  I  could  have  slept  where  I  stood — 
easily." 

He  might  perhaps  have  added,  "  as  your  assessor  slept 
just  now,"  for  he  was  very  young ;  but  at  that  moment 
the  door  opened  to  admit  a  member  of  the  public  who  had 
heard  of  this  trial. 

A  young  girl,  slim,  dark,  quietly  dressed,  entered  and 
sat  down  on  a  chair  by  the  wall.  As  on  the  two  previous 
days  so  now  she  was  the  sole  occupant  of  that  row  of 
chairs.  She  looked  small,  microscopic,  pathetic,  against 
that  dim  expanse  of  wall  which  shadowed  her,  well-nigh 
blotting  her  out.  Her  entrance  had  caused  but  little  stir  ; 
but  it  was  sufficient  to  attract  O'Hagan.  He  paused  in 
the  swing  of  argument  and  for  a  moment  seemed  to  con- 
template going  to  her  aid.  Then  the  constable  who  had 
introduced  her  sidled  out,  moving  with  immense  caution 
in  heavy  boots  and  the  door  closed  behind  him — sans  sound. 
Even  in  the  gloom  of  that  court  it  was  possible  to  see 
that  a  glance  passed  between  the  two  young  people — the 
man  who  stood  to  speak  and  the  girl  who  came  to  hear ; 
but  the  magistrates  and  assessors  engaged  on  this  inquiry 
had  sterner  business  to  consider  than  any  usually  known 
to  woman. 


A  CHALLENGE  33 

O'Hagan  drew  himself  up  and  resumed,  a  new  note 
evident — "  I  could  have  slept  where  I  stood,  sir.  Faith  ! 
I  mean  it.  Sometimes  I  may  tell  you  that  is  the  only  form 
of  sleep  that  comes  to  a  British  shipmaster — but  on  this 
occasion  it  was  impossible.  I  left  the  ship  in  charge  of  my 
chief  mate — a  man  fully  qualified  to  relieve  me,  qualified 
by  the  Board  of  Trade  and  by  experience.  I  don't  wish 
to  shuffle  out  of  my  responsibility,  or  to  throw  the  burden 
from  my  shoulders  to  those  of  the  mate.  He  did  his  best 
in  very  difficult  conditions.  He,  too,  was  dead  beat.  I 
don't  suppose  I  could  have  done  any  better.  I  might 
have  done  worse — God  knows  .  .  .  but  I  wish  to  point 
out  that  there  are  limits  to  physical  endurance.  I  had 
reached  those  limits.  You  might  as  well  have  stuck  a 
paper  man  on  the  bridge  as  left  me  there  after  thirty-two 
hours.  .  .  ." 

"  What  ?  What  ?  "  questioned  the  assessor  who  was  deaf. 

The  chairman  raised  a  sleek  hand  carrying  a  signet  and 
a  diamond  which  gleamed. 

"  I  don't  think  you  do  yourself  any  service,  captain," 
he  remarked  frowningly,  "  by  giving  way  to  temper  here. 
I  would  urge  you  very  seriously  to  leave  explanation  and 
— a — generalisations,  on  one  side  and  give  your  attention 
to  the  questions  which  are  put  to  you.  ..." 

"  I  want  you  to  understand  the  position,  sir,"  quoth  the 
Bottle-filler.  "  I  want  you  to  recognise  that  a  man  is  not 
made  of  cast-iron  because  he  happens  to  be  in  command. 
I  agree,  in  the  light  of  what  transpired,  that  it  might  have 
been  better  for  us  if  I  had  taken  a  spell  off  sooner,  and 
come  up  fresh  to  make  my  landfall.  But  we  had  been  in 
difficulties " — he  phrased  it  so  with  calm  intonation. 
"  You  see,  our  deck  cargo  had  broken  adrift  and  I  was 
rather  put  to  it  to  know  how  to  secure  it  ...  what  I 
could  anyhow,  and  save  the  ship.  ..." 

"  I  admit,"  he  said  argumentatively,  "  that  I  might  have 
left  this  to  the  mate,  but  I  was  anxious.  You  can  never 
be  certain  what  will  happen  when  your  deckload  is 
slithering  about.  Then  two  of  our  poor  devils  had  got 
smashed  up  while  trying  to  secure  it  ...  and  I  had  to 
mend  them.  It  isn't  easy  to  explain  what  all  this  means  ; 
but  you  must  understand  it  was  blowing  a  gale  and  the 
seas  were  sweeping  over  us.  A  man  could  not  move  across 
the  deck  without  running  the  risk  of  being  washed  over- 
board or  knocked  silly.  ..." 

B.F.  D 


84  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"No  life-lines  rigged,  captain  ?  "  questioned  the  aged 
assessor. 

"  No,  sir.  At  least  not  of  the  sort  you  suggest.  You 
can't  fix  life-lines  on  decks  cumbered  by  cases  of  machinery 
and  casks  of  chemicals.  ..." 

"  I  don't  admit  that,"  quoth  the  assessor,  drawing  one 
hand  slowly  down  his  face  to  conceal  a  yawn. 

"  Nor  do  I,"  asserted  the  deaf  assessor.  "  We  found 
it  essential  to  fix  them  always  in  my  day." 

"  Did  you  carry  deckloads  in  the  P.  &  O.  ?  "  came  crisply 
from  the  Bottle-filler. 

"  What  ?     What  ?  " 

O'Hagan  repeated  his  question  and  the  assessor  smiled 
indulgently. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said.  "  I  was  referring  to  an  earlier  stage 
of  my  career." 

"  Fifty  years  ago,  sir.     Precisely,"  O'Hagan  commented. 

The  chairman,  after  several  attempts  to  evade  the  desire 
he  felt,  yawned  brazenly.  Two  lawyers  facing  him 
followed  suit.  That  passed  it  back  to  the  deaf  assessor, 
who  yawned  also.  The  room  seemed  to  jibber  and  mouth 
with  a  shadowy  attempt  at  imitation,  monstrous  and 
indefinite  to  consider.  The  still  figure  of  the  girl  seated  at 
the  back  of  it  seemed  more  far  off  than  ever,  remote, 
absorbed  by  twisting  veils  of  fog. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  sir,"  O'Hagan  resumed,  "  I  was 
trying  to  make  you  see  the  position  we  were  in,  and  with 
all  deference,  I  do  not  consider  that  life-lines  affect  the 
issue.  ..." 

"  I  had  been  on  deck  for  thirty-two  hours  fighting  for 
our  lives."  He  emphasised  this  by  a  swing  of  his  hand. 
"  All  our  lives,  you  understand,  and  I  gave  very  little 
thought  to  questions  of  fatigue  until  .  .  .  well,  until  I 
found  I  was  done.  So  I  say  now,  that  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  deckload  the  Sphinx  would  have  been  afloat 
to-day." 

The  junior  magistrate  moved  in  his  chair.  He  seemed 
puzzled,  perhaps  oppressed.  Somewhere  at  the  back  of 
his  mind,  in  spite  of  the  fog,  Moliere's  phrase  stirred  in  an 
altered  form — "  What  the  devil  was  this  man  doing  in 
that  galley  ?  " 

He  leaned  back  tapping  with  his  fingers  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair.  A  man  who  could  defend  himself  in  this  fashion 
should  not  be  in  a  vessel  of  the  Sphinx  class.  He  was 


35 

about  to  speak,  perhaps  to  suggest  this,  when  the  voice  of 
one  who  sat  with  him  intervened. 

"  How  ?  "  said  the  bearded  assessor,  who  had  dozed. 
"  I  don't  quite  follow  you  there,  captain." 

"  Well — it  broke  adrift,"  the  Bottle-filler  announced. 
"  It  smashed  the  rails,  port  and  starboard  on  the  foreside 
of  the  bridge.  It  smashed  up  two  of  my  men  and  kept  me 
going  until  I  was  fit  to  do  no  more." 

"  I  understand  you  signed  a  paper  expressing  your 
satisfaction  with  the  manner  in  which  this  cargo  was 
secured  ?  "  said  the  assessor. 
"  Certainly  I  signed  it." 

"  Without  comment  or  any  sort  of  protest  ?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  Was  that  wise  if  you  were  not  satisfied  ?  " 
"  I  was  satisfied  that  the  thing  was  as  secure  as  lashings 
could  make  it.     I  was   not    satisfied    with    the    cargo 
itself." 

"  I  gather,"  said  the  chairman,  leaning  forward  in  his 
place,  "  that  you  do  not  consider  the  deckload  was 
excessive  ?  " 

"  It  is  difficult  to  say  what  is  and  what  is  not  excessive, 
sir.  I  was  bound  to  Hamburg.  I  could  not  have  brought 
that  cargo  into  a  British  port — but  I  could  take  it  to  the 
Continent  without  breaking  any  regulations.  If  we  had 
had  fine  weather  we  should  have  come  in  sound  ;  but  we 
had  gales — bad  gales  of  the  kind  you  may  expect  on  the 
Atlantic  in  winter  time." 

"  Hum,"  said  the  chairman,  deep  in  his  throat.     "  And 
I  am  to  understand  you  made  no  protest,  captain,  of  any 
sort  or  kind  ?  " 
"  None  officially." 
"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  " 

"  That  I  expressed  my  dissatisfaction  to  my  agents  and 
could  do  no  more.  If  a  British  ship  is  bound  to  a  foreign 
port  the  Board  of  Trade  appears  to  have  no  jurisdiction. 
She  may  carry  a  deckload  which  she  would  not  be  allowed 
to  carry  into  a  British  port.  I  objected  to  it  as  I  shall 
always  object.  Ships  are  not  intended  to  carry  deck- 
loads,  if  you  want  my  opinion.  What  can  a  man  do  when 
great  cases  of  machinery,  or  casks  of  tallow  break  adrift  ? 
How  can  he  secure  them  against  the  scend  of  a  ship  in  a 
sea-way  ?  If  he  lives  to  tell  his  experience  he  is  lucky. 
Half  the  trouble  at  sea  is  caused  by  carrying  deckloads." 

D  s 


86  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

The  assessor,  alert  still  and  burning  to  retrieve  his 
position,  drummed  on  the  table  with  his  pencil. 

"  The  Board  of  Trade  statistics  do  not  bear  you  out, 
captain,"  he  remarked  with  pursed  lips. 

"  The  Board  of  Trade  authorise  deckloads,  sir,  because 
shipowners  demand  it,"  said  the  Bottle-filler  with  point 
and  emphasis. 

"  I  gather,  then,"  said  the  chairman,  "  that  you  would 
be  prepared  to  place  the  onus  of  this  matter  on  your 
owners,  Captain  O'Hagan  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  have  made  it  plain  that  .  .  ." 

The  lawyer  who  defended  this  Bottle-filler  plucked  at 
his  coat  tails,  but  he  refused  to  sit  down. 

"  I  think  I  have  made  it  quite  plain,"  he  reiterated, 
"  that  if  the  deckload  had  not  broken  adrift  I  should  have 
been  on  deck  myself  when  we  made  the  land  ...  as  it 
was  I  was  on  my  sofa.  ..." 

"  I  cannot  defend  you,  Captain  O'Hagan,"  the 
lawyer  pressed,  "  unless  you  are  prepared  to  be  guided 
by  me." 

"  I  think,"  said  the  chairman,  "  that  Captain  O'Hagan 
is  unwise  to  allow  himself  to  be  carried  away  in  this — 
a — fashion.  It  can  do  him  no  good  .  .  .  indeed,"  he 
frowningly  admonished,  "  it  may  do  him  harm." 

"  I  am  on  my  defence,"  said  O'Hagan.  "  I  must  make 
myself  clear." 

"  You  assert,"  said  the  assessor  who  had  been  caught 
drowsing,  "  that  the  Board  of  Trade  authorises  deckloads 
because  shipowners  demand  it.  I  do  not  agree  with  you. 
I  think  the  statement  should  not  have  been  made." 

The  lawyer  who  represented  the  Board  of  Trade  rose 
and  said — 

"  I  should,  perhaps,  have  taken  notice  of  that  remark, 
had  I  wished  unduly  to  press  Captain  O'Hagan — as  it  is, 
I  do  not  intend  to  add  to  his  burden." 

Again  the  defence  plucked  at  straws. 

"Withdraw  it,  captain  .  .  .  withdraw,"  whispered  the 
law. 

And  the  Bottle-filler,  smarting  under  a  sense  of  oppres- 
sion he  could  not  define,  answered — 

"  I  had  no  desire  to  offend  anyone  when  I  made  that 
statement,  much  less  the  Board  of  Trade,  but  it  is  true. 
You  see,  sir,"  he  addressed  the  chairman  directly, 
"  foreign  ships  run  in  competition  with  our  ships,  and 


A  CHALLENGE  3? 

foreigners  carry  deckloads.  So  we  have  to  do  the  same, 
or  get  wiped  off  the  slate.  ..." 

"  Wiped  off  the  slate  !  Really,  captain,  I  think  you  are 
making  a  mistake  there.  Competition  is  a  healthy  state 
of  affairs — a — generally.  Without  competition  we  should 
degenerate  into  something  too  supine  for  words.  Com- 
petition keeps  us  keen.  It  invigorates  the  masses — a — 
gives  a  chance  to  new  men,  vivifies  their  brains,  clarifies 
their — a — vision  and  enables  them — a — to  compete  with 
other — a — men.  You  take  me  ?  You  see  the  drift  ? 
But  I  should  not  pursue  that  line  of  argument,  captain,  if 
I  were  you.  It  really  isn't  worthy  your  consideration, 
because,  you  see,  it  has  been  considered,  thrashed  out  in 
the  schools,  hammered  into  shape  and  set  forth  in  the 
form  of — a — of  essays." 

The  chair  was  away  on  one  of  its  pet  theories  and  the 
question  at  issue  stayed. 

The  lawyers  looked  bored.  The  grey -bearded  assessor 
closed  his  eyes,  his  brother  assessor  stared  at  the  brown 
window  he  faced.  He  yawned  openly. 

"  I  believe  in  freedom  of  exchange,"  said  the  chair, 
"  and  to  obtain  that  you  must  have  competition.  The 
principle  of  the  thing  was  set  forth  long  ago  by  the  genius 
of — a — Bas  .  .  .  Bastiat,"  he  covered  his  face  to  hide  the 
yawn  provoked  by  this  name.  "  I  doubt,"  he  resumed 
frowning,  "  if  you  have  ever  heard  of  him,  or  of  Cobden 
and  those  of  his  school  whom  he — a — so  wonderfully 
paraphrased."  He  glanced  over  the  gold  pince-nez  he 
had  assumed  waiting  for  the  captain's  reply,  and  that  tried 
man  gave  it  in  the  language  he  knew — 

"  If  he  went  to  sea,  sir,  and  had  any  knowledge  of  deck- 
cargoes,  I'll  bet  he  didn't  believe  in  carrying  them  until 
he  chucked  the  sea  and  became  a  shipowner." 

The  chairman  looked  solemnly  over  folded  hands  at 
this  Bottle-filler  and  said,  in  the  phrasing  for  which  he  was 
famed  since  that  day  when  he  had  received  knighthood  at 
the  hands  of  his  party — 

"  I  hoped  to  do  you  a  service,  captain  " — his  intonation 
was  sepulchral — "  and  to  persuade  you,  if  possible — a — to 
consider  this  matter  from  the — a — point  of  view  of  the 
man  in  the  street ;  but " — he  moved  his  hands  and  the 
diamond  gleamed — "  it  seems  useless  .  .  .  quite  useless." 

He  stared  at  the  row  of  sorrowing  lawyers  who  con- 
fronted him,  singled  one  out  and  said  acidly — 


38  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  You  were  saying,  Mr.  Bashelan,  something  of  calling 
certain  members  of  the  crew  .  .  .  when — a — this  inter- 
lude occurred.  Will  you  go  on  ?  Captain,  perhaps  you 
will  be  good  enough  to  sit  down  ?  " 

The  Bottle-filler,  with  the  air  of  one  tired  of  protest,  sat 
as  desired.  The  lawyer  in  a  matter-of-fact  way  got  on  his 
feet  and  began  to  speak.  Out  of  the  first  sentences  there 
fell  a  word  which  made  O'Hagan  burn.  Intemperance  ! 
The  last  resort  of  a  hard-pressed  defence.  The  article 
one  can  produce,  at  a  price,  with  the  precision  of  all 
machine-made  things,  be  they  lies  or  merely  evidence. 
O'Hagan  leaned  towards  his  adviser  with  a  touch 
which  showed  the  strain  he  endured,  and  received  his 
answer. 

"  Keep  cool,  captain  .  .  .  keep  cool.  They  generally 
bring  it  forward — in  cases  of  this  sort,"  he  added  after  a 
small  pause. 

"  It's  a  lie  !  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Then  why  in  Heaven's  name  !  " 

"  Wait  .  .  .  we'll  scotch  them." 

Bashelan  completed  his  introductory  remarks,  then 
turned  and  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  group  of 
witnesses.  A  Belgian  who  spoke  sufficient  English  to 
pass  the  test  on  sailing  day,  but  at  no  other  time  under  the 
sun,  crowded  to  the  front  and  with  the  aid  of  an  inter- 
preter was  sworn.  In  the  hands  of  the  owners'  lawyer 
it  appeared  from  this  person's  evidence  that  Captain 
O'Hagan  was  constantly  drunk.  So,  too,  were  the  first 
mate  and  the  chief  engineer.  "  On  the  night  of  the  wreck," 
said  the  lips  of  the  translator  with  due  unction,  "  the 
captain  was  so  drunk  that  he  could  not  stand  !  " 

O'Hagan  was  already  on  his  feet  when  a  cry  arose  from 
that  blank  wall  space  which  held  one  lonely  figure  upon 
its  dim  expanse. 

"  Oh  !  It's  not  true  .  .  .  it's  not  true  ...  it  couldn't 
be  true,  because  .  .  .  because " 

"  Lucy  !     For  God's  sake.  .  .  ." 

O'Hagan  pushed  back  his  chair  with  a  haste  which  sent 
a  scroop  through  the  high  room  and  in  one  instant  he  was 
at  her  side. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Mem-sahib  !  "  he  reiterated,  speaking 
low,  holding  her  hands,  staring  into  her  face,  "  don't  let 
them  think  you  can  feel.  It's  a  lie.  I  can  prove  it. 


A  CHALLENGE  39 

Stand  firm,  oh,  dearest,  and  see  me  jump  on  them."  He 
squeezed  hands  as  she  looked  up,  checking  the  sob  which 
had  risen.  "  Now  I  must  go  back,"  he  whispered. 
"  Laugh  at  the  beasts  .  .  .  they  can't  hurt  us  !  " 

He  returned  to  a  place  beside  his  lawyer  as  the  chairman 
opened  his  mouth  to  give  utterance  to  that  well-worn 
sentence  which  threatens  to  clear  the  court  "  if  this 
unseemly  conduct  is  resumed." 

A  dim  threat  given  in  a  dim  light  against  a  dim  personage 
who  might  or  might  not  hear  it ;  given  and  pushed  aside 
both  by  the  court  and  by  the  offender,  because  it  was 
obvious — obvious  that  a  dim  smudge  amidst  the  wall 
space  could  work  no  harm. 

O'Hagan's  lawyer  was  on  his  feet  to  turn  the  tide.  He 
took  no  notice  of  his  client's  dash  or  of  his  return.  He  was 
immersed  in  the  study  of  a  Belgian  sailor  who  had  pro- 
vided a  sensation  which  might  perhaps  focus  people's 
attention  on  this  case  of  subornation,  if  on  no  other  phase 
of  the  trial.  The  papers  might  help  here.  He  glanced 
round — but  with  the  exception  of  a  young  journalist  who 
"  did  pars  "  for  the  shipowners'  organ,  no  representatives 
of  the  Press  had  faced  the  dullness. 

With  a  touch  of  anger,  the  first  that  had  appeared,  the 
lawyer  Hargreaves  turned  to  cross-examine  his  witness. 
He  explained  that  this  sailor  had  been  roughly  handled 
by  Captain  O'Hagan  on  the  night  in  question  because  he 
insisted  on  climbing  into  a  boat  when  ordered  to  prepare 
her.  He  showed  in  point  of  fact  that  the  Belgian  had 
been  drilled  by  experts  in  the  art  of  finding  evidence,  and 
that  he  was  an  individual  who  did  not  understand  the 
duties  for  which  he  had  shipped.  He  sent  him  back  with 
a  skirl  of  indignation  and  O'Hagan  breathed  hard. 

Then  came  two  additional  witnesses,  members  of  the 
crew  whom  O'Hagan  had  saved,  who  spoke  with  monkey- 
like  definition  to  certain  acts  of  drunkenness.  They  swore 
it,  one  through  an  interpreter,  the  other  in  genuine  cock- 
ney, and  again  Hargreaves  was  set  to  it  to  prove  malice,  to 
prove  indeed  that  this  thing  had  never  occurred.  To 
prove,  you  will  understand,  a  negative — which  is  im- 
possible, if  not,  as  Euclid  would  say,  absurd. 

The  Bench  listened  in  bored  silence.  There  was  no 
occasion  here  for  assessors  to  be  on  the  alert.  This  part  of 
the  thing  was  to  be  judged,  yea  or  nay,  on  the  view  the  court 
took  of  a  witness's  veracity.  Doubtless  Captain  O'Hagan 


40  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

would  be  prepared  to  produce  individuals  who  could  swear 
with  precision — meanwhile  wise  men  marked  time. 

Then  from  the  owners  came  evidence  of  a  more  subtle 
character.  It  appeared  that  they  had  for  some  time  been 
doubtful  of  Captain  O'Hagan's  competence,  and  had 
written  to  their  agents  in  New  York,  and  other  places  at 
which  the  Sphinx  had  touched,  raising  this  same  question 
of  insobriety.  True,  each  of  the  agencies  replied  that  it 
had  not  observed  anything  to  lead  it  to  suspect  that 
Captain  O'Hagan  drank  more  than  was  good  for  him  ;  but 
the  suggestion  remained  a  very  damning  one  until 
O'Hagan's  advocate,  now  thoroughly  on  his  mettle,  tore 
it  to  shreds.  He  pointed  out  with  considerable  fire  that 
it  was  not  until  after  a  dispute  had  occurred  between  this 
Bottle-filler  and  his  owners  that  his  owners  became 
afflicted  with  any  qualms  as  to  his  insobriety — a  thrust 
this  which  set  O'Hagan  smiling  and  the  far-off  face 
against  the  wall  quivering  with  hope  and  fear. 

Oh  !  he  was  very  young,  this  British  shipmaster  who 
filled  the  bottles  of  his  countrymen,  yet  he  was  on  trial 
for  his  life- — nearly  as  young,  indeed,  as  that  sweet-eyed 
girl-woman  who  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  thrilling 
when  he  thrilled,  smiling  when  he  smiled. 

The  magistrates  consulted  over  this  point  and  then  the 
chairman  put  questions  which  elicited  that  the  dispute  had 
reference  to  certain  repairs  which  were  considered  essential 
by  the  captain  and  his  chief  engineer,  and  unnecessary  by 
the  owners. 

Hargreaves  considered  he  had  scored  in  this  bout  and 
ventured  to  impress  the  fact  on  his  client,  but  it  appeared 
that  the  chairman  frowned  on  the  explanation.  He  did 
not  like  it.  It  seemed  to  suggest  animus  on  the  part  of 
the  owners  as  well  as  on  the  part  of  the  crew.  No — no. 
That  must  not  be  pressed.  Unwise — quite  unwise,  if  I 
may  say  so.  The  deaf  assessor  seemed  to  concur.  He  of 
the  long  beard  drew  pictures  of  the  futility  of  "  a  captain 
bein'  at  variance  with  his  owners."  An  unwise  policy  in 
truth. 

So  the  thing  see-sawed — now  finding  points  for  the 
Bottle-filler  ;  now  for  his  owners.  Each  lawyer  discovered 
something  pertinent  to  his  client,  each  witness  left  the  box 
more  or  less  uncertain  what  he  had  sworn,  but  smudged  ; 
and  no  soul  of  all  who  sat  in  that  fog-bound  court  could 
have  said  authoritatively  how  the  case  would  go.  As  a 


A  CHALLENGE  41 

hazard  it  was  worthy  the  spin  of  a  coin.  It  usually  is 
when  mud  has  been  flung  with  intent. 

But  when  the  lamps  outside  browned  windows  com- 
menced to  waver  and  grow  dull,  Hargreaves  sought  an 
adjournment.  He  considered,  in  view  of  the  aspersions 
which  had  been  showered  on  his  client,  that  he  was 
justified  in  asking  to  be  allowed  to  call  evidence  as  to 
Captain  O'Hagan's  character.  And  to  this  the  court  agreed. 
"  We  concur,"  it  said  in  parenthesis;  "  oh,  yes,  we  very 
certainly  concur." 

And  wise  men  applauded  their  decision  if  others 
squirmed.  The  gloom  was  a  burden.  Even  the  magis- 
trate who  had  questioned  what  O'Hagan  did  in  that  galley 
was  weary  and  confused,  tired,  a  little  petulant  and 
anxious  to  be  rid  of  puzzles.  His  head  ached. 

That  is  the  usual  end  of  legal  arguments  in  any  weather  ; 
but  on  a  dull  day  only  the  lawyers  can  do  without 
phenacetin.  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  why  they  exist. 

O'Hagan  went  under  with  the  fire  of  that  mutual  con- 
currence, unspoken  as  it  was.  Nature  fought  against 
him  here  as  on  the  high  seas.  Individual  forces  were  in 
the  scales,  privilege,  convention — the  law  which  alters  not. 
If  O'Hagan  had  been  merely  intelligent  he  would  have 
made  no  stir  about  deck-loads.  He  would  not  have 
challenged  an  assessor  obviously  in  need  of  a  nap.  He 
would  have  encouraged  him  to  sleep.  He  would  have 
found  a  pillow  for  his  head.  Without  noise  or  fuss  he 
would  have  made  him  exceedingly  comfortable  in  his 
chair,  and  so  earned  his  blessing. 

But  O'Hagan  was  an  Irishman  and  without  intelligence. 
He  was  ready  to  fight  at  any  moment.  He  would  never 
consider  the  odds.  He  had  no  subtleties.  He  was 
unaccustomed  to  consider  the  end.  "  Let  the  end  take 
care  of  itself  "  might,  with  some  relevancy,  have  stood  as 
his  motto.  The  strain  of  Celtic  blood  in  his  veins  com- 
pelled him  to  challenge,  even  on  this  day  of  yawning  and 
lassitude,  when  brazen  men  were  weary  and  a  network, 
filmy  but  definitely  clogging,  had  been  spun  about  his 
path. 

O'Hagan's  keen  eyes  flashed  when  he  heard  the  result 
of  his  lawyer's  appeal.  He  was  unaware  of  any  toils. 
Subornation  was  a  factor  too  remote  to  touch  him.  He 
did  not  know  its  name. 

The  room  was  sepulchral  when  at  length  they  filed  out 


42  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

of  it ;  a  woman's  face  the  one  unsullied  of  all  who  had 
endured  the  day's  fencing. 

"  They  can  never  prove  it,  my  darling,"  she  whispered 
as  O'Hagan  joined  her.  "  No  one  in  the  world  would 
believe  them  if  they  did." 

And  this  was  the  opinion  of  the  one  member  of  the  public 
who  for  three  days  had  been  content  to  listen  to  the 
wordiness  of  the  lords  of  creation. 


CHAPTER  II 

WE   CONCUR 

THE  three  days  granted  by  the  court  fizzled  out  to  the 
accompaniment  of  fog  and  the  black  drizzle  known  in 
towns  as  rain.  Then  came  a  gale  to  clean  the  air  and  make 
men  brisk. 

Snow  stretched  out  a  hand  trying  to  whiten  things  and 
retired  to  brood  in  face  of  the  salt  men  strewed.  The 
broad  river  bustled  seaward,  swept  by  the  smoke  of  the 
eastern  chimneys.  Steamers  wailed  in  dismal  iteration  of 
the  fact  that  smoke  blinded  them ;  ferry  boats  hustled 
hither  and  away  crossing  the  traffic.  Tram-cars  clanged 
on  gongs  as  they  passed  laden  with  passengers  ;  teams  of 
giant  horses  crept  with  straining  thews  up  from  the  docks, 
and  up  and  down  the  pavements  hastened  those  pedes- 
trians whom  business  had  called  from  their  homes. 
Telegraph  boys  careened  on  red  bicycles,  messengers  ran 
hither  and  thither,  darting  amidst  the  courts  and  subways 
of  a  city.  Jangle,  clang  and  hustle.  The  roar  of  a  giant 
busy  tending  the  wants,  stocking  the  pantries,  filling  the 
cellars  of  a  nation  grown  clamorous  for  comfort. 

And  amidst  it  all,  taking  small  heed  of  the  snow,  the 
pall  of  leaden  air,  the  mud  and  salted  slush,  darted  the 
newsboys,  bare  of  head — usually,  bare  of  feet  and  legs — in 
nearly  all  cases  ;  unconscious  yet  of  tragedy  and  shouting 
shrilly  of  the  tragedy  they  sold. 

O'Hagan  waiting  in  the  narrow  street  for  his  witnesses 
came  forward  and  took  a  paper.  Twopence  changed 
hands.  The  boy  spat  on  the  coins  and  garnered  them 
amidst  his  rags.  He  seemed  elated  at  his  luck  and  dashed 
off,  reiterating  piercingly  his  tragic  cry — 

"  Loss  of  a  liner  .  .  .  great  shippin' disaster  .  .  .  boats 
dashed  to  pieces  .  .  .  loss  of  a  liner.  .  .  ." 

O'Hagan  opened  the  sheet  and  presently  discovered  far 
down  the  page  a  brief  telegram  from  Corunna  stating  that 
the  mailship  Atrick  had  struck  an  uncharted  rock  between 
Villano  and  Finisterre  and  had  sunk  almost  immediately. 


44  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  The  loss  of  life,"  said  the  final  paragraph,  "  will  probably 
be  large.  Rescuing  steamer  reports  several  boats  missing. 
Details  later." 

"  The  Atrick,"  said  O'Hagan,  as  he  rejoined  Hargreaves. 
"  Good  Lord  !  one  of  the  Eastern  Mail.  I  knew  all  the 
men  in  her — poor  devils  !  " 

The  lawyer  caught  at  the  paper  and  scanned  it. 

"  That  is  your  old  service,  then  ?  "  he  commented. 
"  Good  heavens,  I  hope  it  will  not  prevent  Captain 
Worsdale  giving  us  the  benefit  of  his  presence." 

"  No  fear  of  that — if  I  know  him.  Besides,  this  is  only 
just  out  ...  he  can't  have  heard." 

Hargreaves  shook  his  head  over  this.  "  It  will  rush  him 
when  he  does  come,"  he  asserted,  ruffled.  "  What  a 
bother  !  Well — we  had  better  get  in  and  face  the  music." 
Then  as  they  tramped  the  passage  he  halted  and,  looking 
O'Hagan  in  the  face,  said — "  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  hope  the 
lady,  if  she  comes  to-day,  will  manage  to  control  herself 
better.  That  sort  of  thing  is  all  very  well  in  jury  cases,  or 
where  there  are  reporters  to  pass  it  on  to  the  papers  .  .  . 
but  here,  it  doesn't  do  ...  waste  of  steam,  if  I  may  say 
so.  .  .  ." 

"  She  will  not  come  again.  I  have  seen  to  that,"  said 
O'Hagan,  then  with  a  swift  turn — "  Good  Lord  !  you  don't 
mean  to  suggest  that  you  think  it  was  got  up  for  effect  ?  " 

"  My  dear  captain,"  the  lawyer  smiled,  "  I  am  here  in 
the  character  of  adviser.  Certainly  I  do  not  suggest  it ; 
but  there  are  those  who  will.  That  is  why  I  spoke — why, 
in  point  of  fact,  I  felt  it  was  my  duty  to  warn  you." 

"  I  am  in  a  world  I  don't  pretend  to  understand," 
O'Hagan  threw  back,  frowning.  "  Out  there  " — he  indi- 
cated the  direction  of  the  sea — "  it  is  all  clean  and  straight 
in  comparison  with  this  beastly  business  of  lies  and 
shuffling  and  innuendo.  No  one  can  hold  up  a  finger  here 
by  the  Lord  !  but  everybody  gets  up  to  see  what  is  hidden 
behind  the  finger.  You  shore-going  folk  don't  give  us 
fair  play  in  your  courts.  There  is  too  much  subtlety 
suggested.  Sailors  are  not  subtle — they  are  white  men. 
White  and  straight  as  a  die." 

Hargreaves  took  his  arm  as  they  entered.  "  Don't  get 
on  edge,"  he  urged.  "  Perhaps  some  day  we  shall  get  the 
court  you  desire.  I  admit  it  is  necessary." 

"  Necessary  !  "  O'Hagan  challenged.  "  Oh,  yes — and 
for  that  reason  it  will  not  come.  We  are  too  busy  to  be 


WE  CONCUR  45 

rational.  When  we  have  driven  sailors  off  the  sea  we 
shall  begin  to  offer  inducements  to  people  who  have  never 
heard  of  the  sea  to  send  their  boys  to  man  our  ships.  But 
the  boys  won't  stay.  Mark  my  words — they  won't  stay," 
he  hissed  it  out — "  unless  somebody  begins  to  make  it 
possible  for  men  like  me  to  exist." 

They  took  their  places  and  presently  faced  the  music 
with  the  calm  of  all  driven  souls. 

This  sudden  announcement  of  the  loss  of  one  of  his  old 
ships  had  stirred  O'Hagan  more  than  he  was  aware.  The 
knowledge  that  it  might  prevent  Captain  Worsdale  appear- 
ing as  he  had  promised  made  him  dread  the  rush  of  that 
final  chorus  which  would  echo  about  his  ears.  Men  of  the 
British  Merchant  Service  are  not  given  a  chance.  This 
mud-slinging  business,  it  appeared,  was  no  new  thing ; 
but  it  was  rarely  urged  in  cases  where  so  little  evidence 
was  on  the  side  of  the  slingers.  Hargreaves  admitted  as 
much.  At  the  same  time  he  stated  that  it  was  common 
where  these  pettifogging  shipowners  were  on  the  defence. 
"  One- ship  companies  like  these  people  of  yours  have  no 
conscience,"  he  announced.  "  They  are  there  to  make 
money.  How  they  make  it  doesn't  come  within  inquiry. 
What  are  you  doing  with  them,  anyhow  ?  Get  out, 
my  friend,  while  there  is  time." 

Hargreaves,  O'Hagan  perceived,  had  no  respect  for 
shipowners  of  a  certain  rank  and  status.  His  life  was 
spent  fighting  them,  and  he  knew  more  of  their  methods 
than  he  cared  to  admit. 

Well — and  here  was  the  music  begun  already.  Someone 
was  on  his  feet  proclaiming  that  lie  afresh.  A  cockney 
accent  intoned  it.  The  suave  facility  with  which  the  words 
rolled  was  exasperating.  But  O'Hagan,  now  that  the 
orchestra  had  finished  tuning  up,  sat  calm  to  listen.  He 
leaned  forward,  elbows  on  the  table,  chin  on  hand,  ready 
to  quarrel,  ready  to  give  back,  with  a  trowel  if  necessary, 
anything  flung. 

The  music  was  before  him.  He  glanced  over  the  score 
he  faced,  noting  the  gradual  move  towards  crescendo,  the 
sorrowful  phrasing  of  the  horns,  thrust  in,  as  it  were,  to 
plead,  and  came  in  imagination  to  the  wrath  and  turbulent 
maze  of  a  chorus  which  suddenly  sprang  out,  drowning  all 
protest ;  which  marched  triumphant  and  vibrating  to  the 
death — then  crept  in  with  small  wailing  arpeggios  which 
wriggled  into  silence  as  the  victim  lay  still. 


46  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

He  saw  himself  still.  Very  small  and  very  flattened, 
prone  at  the  end  of  a  vast  plateau  where  no  other  soul 
stirred.  The  dim  air  was  kept  moving  by  the  wings  of 
birds  which  hovered  over  him,  swooping  down,  waiting, 
chattering.  It  was  all  very  far  off,  and  in  the  distance 
gleams  of  light  played.  The  sea  was  somewhere  near. 
He  could  hear  its  roar,  the  solemn  monotone  of  surges 
charging  the  granite  coast  which  faced  them.  He  saw 
nothing  of  this — yet  it  passed  as  other  phantoms  pass 
when  man  is  at  war  with  faith,  when  hope  no  longer 
stands  as  a  possible  adjunct,  and  lies  have  driven  forth 
charity. 

It  shaped  in  his  brain  at  length  as  the  disaster  which  had 
overtaken  him.  By  some  it  was  suggested  that  he  had 
committed  barratry.  Cast  away  his  ship  !  God  !  how 
he  had  fought  in  that  blinding  whirr  of  spray  and  driven 
spume.  How  Barlow  had  striven — poor  little  Steel,  too, 
who  now  was  a  ghost,  perhaps  on  that  plane  he  had  seen, 
with  all  his  crew  of  seaboys  pulling,  straining  at  the  oars 
to  reach  land  which  receded  as  they  rowed.  He  could  see 
Steel  as  he  stood  there  in  the  stern  sheets  waving  a  cheery 
farewell  to  men  who  would  never  encounter  his  anger 
again,  nor  his  smile,  nor  the  reek  of  his  too  rank  pipe. 
Steel — a  ghost !  One  of  the  lost  rising  from  the  sea  with 
a  tangle  of  hair  and  seaweed  clogging  him  ;  the  fourteen 
who  were  with  him  clamouring  to  get  back  into  their  boat. 

Striven  ?  Of  course  they  had  striven.  Did  any  fool- 
magistrate  imagine  that  men  voluntarily  put  themselves 
in  danger  of  hell  fire  for  the  sake  of  a  fifty  pound  note,  or 
a  hundred,  or  ten  thousand,  if  any  shipowner  existed 
who  could  pay  it  ?  Did  he  imagine,  by  the  Lord  !  that  a 
captain  who  had  lives  in  his  keeping,  who  had  a  ship  in  his 
keeping,  was  likely  to  be  drunk  at  a  moment  when  he  was 
brushing  sleep  from  his  eyes  and  struggling  to  find,  in 
a  blackness  which  roared,  what  hit  his  ship  ;  why  she 
staggered  and  thumped  and  tilted  with  the  seas  pouring 
over  her  .  .  .  ? 

Did  he  imagine  anything  ?  Could  he  imagine — or  was 
he  so  steeped  in  the  attitudes  of  the  drunk  and  disorderly 
he  judged,  that  he  must  apply  the  same  arguments  to  men 
of  the  sea  .  .  .  ? 

O'Hagan  breathed  hard.  His  chin  was  sunk  on  his 
hands,  his  eyes  fixed  on  an  object  he  did  not  see ;  his 
thoughts,  his  memory,  his  vitality  coping  with  scenes  far 


WE  CONCUR  47 

from  the  ken  of  courts,  far  from  the  drone  of  cars  and 
trollies — away  in  a  land  he  could  people  or  blot  out  as  he 
desired.  Dreamland.  The  beautiful  land  we  harness  and 
govern  at  will. 

Hargreaves  touched  his  elbow  and  he  looked  round. 

"  That's  the  worst  of  you  people,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"  You  are  all  imagination." 

"  If  I  had  not  an  imagination,"  O'Hagan  returned,  "  I 
should  not  have  gone  to  sea.  Bow  before  imagination, 
my  friend — it  feeds  you." 

"  At  the  moment  it  would  pay  you  better  to  take  note 
of  what  is  being  said." 

"  Exactly,"  O'Hagan  countered,  "  but  payment  is  just 
one  of  those  questions  which  never  enters  one's  cosmos." 

There  came  a  sound  of  wheels  and  brakes  and  O'Hagan 
was  alert  and  on  his  feet  in  a  moment. 

The  owners'  lawyer  was  reeling  out  a  speech  and  Har- 
greaves taking  notes.  O'Hagan  bent  down  and  whispered 
— "  That's  Worsdale  for  a  dollar.  I'll  go  and  meet  him." 

He  crept  away  on  tiptoe  and  came  to  the  door.  He  was 
alert  enough  now.  The  advent  of  Worsdale  meant  so 
much  to  this  stern-faced  man  from  the  sea — perhaps 
salvation.  If  he  could  not  save  him  from  the  effect  of 
this  mud-throwing  then  no  one  could.  He  might  give  it 
up,  blow  out  his  brains,  or  go  and  find  a  patch  and  hoe  it 
for  a  livelihood.  Oh  !  the  whole  business  of  sailoring  was 
wiped  out  as  far  as  he  was  concerned ;  wiped  off  the 
slate,  completed.  And  he  loved  the  sea. 

Besides,  there  was  Lucy  to  consider  .  .  .  that  sweet 
girl  whose  cry  yesterday  would,  it  appeared,  be  twisted 
into  an  appeal. 

He  came  down  the  passage  and  encountered  Worsdale 
shaking  the  snow  from  his  coat. 

"  Well,"  questioned  the  great  little  man,  "  What  in 
God's  name  are  you  here  for  ?  " 

"  I  lost  my  ship,  sir — and  .  .  .  and  they  want  to  prove 
I  was  drunk  and  disorderly." 

"  Of  course.  That's  the  magisterial  mind.  Were  you  ?  " 
Worsdale's  eyes  twinkled. 

"  Faith  !  "  O'Hagan  smiled,  "  I  was  but  a  minute  out 
of  my  pew  (bunk)  when  she  struck.  There  wasn't  time 
to  get  a  drink,  let  alone  get  drunk,  or  God  knows  I  might 
have  been.  .  .  ." 

"  I  know.    I  read  your  evidence.    You  attribute  it  to 


48  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

deck  cargo  and  are  up  against  the  law.  Well — let  us  get 
in  and  ask  your  man  to  put  me  up  as  soon  as  possible. 
I  can't  stay  more  than  " — he  glanced  at  his  watch — 
"  fifteen  minutes.  If  my  word  is  necessary,  and  I  suppose 
it  is  or  you  would  not  have  troubled  me,  it  must  be  taken 
quickly." 

He  came  into  court  and  moved  briskly  to  the  table. 
Hargreaves  at  once  assimilated  the  position,  and  touching 
his  friend  the  lawyer,  who  still  argued,  rose  and  addressed 
the  chair.  He  asked  leave  to  be  permitted  to  call  Captain 
Worsdale,  who  at  great  inconvenience  had  come  from 
Town  to  speak  for  Captain  O'Hagan.  He  urged  acquies- 
cence on  the  ground  that  as  the  marine  superintendent 
of  the  Eastern  Mail  Service  it  was  imperative  that  Captain 
Worsdale  returned  at  once. 

There  was  a  small  buzz  of  talk  on  the  Bench.  "  The 
Eastern  Mail  Service  .  .  .  yes,  yes,  owners  of  the  Atrick, 
which  had  taken  a  short  cut  to  Corunna  .  .  .  another  case 
for  someone  to  try  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  certainly.  The  court 
has  no  desire  to  keep  Captain  Worsdale  longer  than  is 
essential." 

Captain  Worsdale  in  a  trice  was  in  the  box,  sworn  ;  the 
preliminary  questions  as  to  his  status  answered.  Then 
Hargreaves,  leaning  slightly  on  one  arm,  said — 

"  You  know  the  defendant  ?  " 

"  For  about  ten  years,"  came  back  instantly. 

"  You  had  him  at  one  time  as  an  officer  under  you  ?  " 

"  Yes — as  fifth,  fourth  and  third  officer  in  the  Saladin 
of  the  Eastern  Mail  Service." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him  drunk  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  Hilarious — shall  we  say  ?  " 

"  At  no  time." 

"  You  have  no  doubt  at  all  as  to  his  sobriety  ?  " 

"  I  would  stake  my  life  on  it,  sir." 

"  And  your  opinion,  Captain  Worsdale,  on  his  capacity 
as  a  seaman  ?  " 

Worsdale  glanced  at  his  watch  and  said  at  once — 

"  I  found  him  always  a  good  and  zealous  officer.  A 
careful  navigator.  A  man  on  whom  I  could  rely.  It  was 
with  considerable  reluctance  I  acquiesced  in  his  desire  to 
change  into  cargo  boats.  If  he  had  remained  in  our  service 
after  I  became  marine  superintendent  I  would  have  had 
him  in  command  in  twelve  months.  And  now,  sir,"  he 


WE  CONCUR  40 

addressed  the  chair,  "  if  I  may  claim  indulgence  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  get  back  to  my  cab." 

The  bench  acknowledged  the  position  in  fit  terms, 
and  Worsdale  bustled  towards  the  door,  accompanied 
by  O'Hagan. 

"  I  should  like  to  express  my  gratitude,  sir,"  O'Hagan 
commenced  when  they  reached  the  passage,  but  the  great 
little  man  would  have  no  thanks. 

"  You  have  given  me  a  rush,"  he  said.  "  I'm  getting 
too  old  to  look  on  that  with  indifference.  I  have  a  ship 
on  the  rocks,  too,  somewhere  between  Corunna  and  Vigo 
.  .  .  devil  of  a  business,  I  fear.  Well — and  what  were 
you  doing  in  the  Sphinx  ?  " 

"  Trying  to  make  a  bit  of  money,  sir." 

"  Money  ?  You  can't  make  money  out  of  vessels  of 
that  class,  unless  you  own  them." 

"  Yes,  but  I  took  some  shares  in  her,  sir  ...  I 
thought " 

"  Shares  in  the  Sphinx  .  .  .  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co.  ?  " 

•'  Yes— why  not  ?  " 

"  Better  have  taken  shares  with  the  Scarlet  Woman  ! 
Good  Lord  !  and  I  have  just  given  you  a  certificate  for 
sanity  and  sobriety  .  .  .  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co. !  Man,  you'll 
lose  every  cent  you  put  in.  They  run  '  One  Ship  Com- 
panies '  .  .  .  get  out  of  it  and  come  to  see  me  in  town." 

He  stepped  into  his  cab,  ordered  the  driver  to  keep  his 
horse  on  his  pins  and  acknowledged  O'Hagan's  salute. 
He  glanced  sidelong  at  one  of  the  newly  produced  taxi-cabs 
buzzing  at  the  pavement,  decided  that  when  "  those 
things  '  were  perfected  quiet  would  be  dead,  and  lay  back 
to  watch  the  heave  and  fall  of  the  horse's  quarters  as 
he  sped  towards  the  station. 

O'Hagan,  with  a  sense  of  impending  trouble  weighing 
on  him,  returned  to  the  court. 

The  case  droned  on.  A  parson  friend  arrived  and  gave 
evidence  as  to  O'Hagan's  sobriety.  He  spoke  quietly, 
stating  that  he  had  known  the  defendant  from  childhood 
and  that  his  conduct  had  always  been  irreproachable. 
Pressed  by  the  owner's  lawyer  he  admitted  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  his  life  at  sea  ;  but  of  his  life  on  shore  he  could 
speak  with  absolute  certitude. 

And  at  the  luncheon  hour  the  talk  fizzled  out.  The 
court  gave  those  whom  it  concerned  to  understand  that 
it  must  take  time  for  consideration.  There  were  many 

B.F.  K 


50  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

points  on  which  it  would  be  necessary  to  read  over  the 
evidence  and  confer  with  the  assessors.  Judgment  would 
be  delivered  on  Monday  next  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  Jake 
Hall. 

Three  days'  suspense  given  in  the  magisterial  manner  as 
to  a  delinquent  "  caught  in  the  act "  ;  but  no  cells,  no 
police  supervision,  freedom,  absolute  freedom  to  O'Hagan 
and  Barlow  to  go  where  they  would,  drown  thought  as 
they  would,  or  get  into  the  river.  Three  days  of  wintry 
weather  in  a  town  which  Lucy  O'Hagan  desired  never  to 
see  again.  A  gale  whistling  over  the  North  Sea  laden  with 
hail  and  rain  and  black  darkness  ;  each  morning  bringing 
its  quota  of  disaster — here  a  commonplace  collision,  there 
a  foundering.  Then  on  Sunday  night  with  the  gale  at 
its  height  screaming  through  leaden  streets,  rockets  came 
from  the  sea  and  presently  the  cliffs  were  lined  by  those 
who  could  stand  there. 

A  big  ship  was  in  trouble — that  was  all.  Why  she  was  in 

trouble a  thing  for  surmise  among  landsmen,  certitude 

among  sailors.  The  Jake  Hall  with  an  odd  magistrate  or 
two  and  a  pair  of  assessors  would  be  ready,  when  the  hour 
struck,  to  advise  men  what  was  the  cause,  why  it  operated, 
and  in  beautifully  balanced  phrasing  to  admonish  those 
men  of  the  sea  who  were  saved  what  they  should  have  done. 

In  the  interim  the  ship,  in  full  sight  of  those  watching 
clusters  of  wind-driven  citizens,  gave  up  the  business  of 
trying  to  get  anywhere,  rolled  over  and  sent  messages  no 
longer  either  by  flag  or  gun.  Far  off  shiverings  appeared. 
A  whiter  blotch  amidst  the  spume  of  that  iron  coast.  All 
quiet.  All  tucked  away,  pushed  out  of  sight  by  creaming 
seas.  No  cries,  no  wailings — nothing  in  any  sense 
unpleasantly  realistic  in  the  methods  of  the  tucker. 

Seen  from  the  cliffs  it  appeared  as  though  Nature  were  in 
league  with  Jake  Hall  to  smother  all  those  stupid  sailor 
folk  with  whom  she  came  in  contact.  The  sea  itched  to 
be  rid  of  its  burden  of  ships.  It  awaited  only  the  oppor- 
tunity and  instantly  moved  when  opportunity  struck. 

It  seemed  that  there  was  nothing  further  to  be  said  on 
the  matter.  The  men  who  had  manned  this  ship  had  failed 
to  keep  her  upright.  That  was  most  stupid.  In  the 
language  they  spoke  she  had  "  turned  turtle  " — well,  but 
they  had  conspired  to  make  her  "  turn  turtle."  First,  it 
seems,  they  had  taken  her  to  sea  in  very  bad  weather, 


WE  CONCUR  51 

with  a  few  locomotives  and  things  for  a  deckload.  Then 
when  the  sea  became  irritable  they  failed  to  keep  the 
machinery  in  place.  That  was  grossly  stupid.  Then,  for 
no  very  plain  reason  they  had  allowed  the  ship  to  become 
unmanageable,  had  even  failed  to  keep  water  out  of 
hatchways  which  the  seas  and  locomotives  had  torn  open. 

Could  anything  be  more  stupid  ? 

If  you  allow  water  to  pour  into  the  holds  you  may  expect 
to  go  down  the  cellar.  The  cellar  is  there  always.  It  is 
no  use  pretending  you  did  not  know  it  was  there. 

And  very  naturally,  seeing  that  men  are  unable  yet  to 
breathe  water,  as  the  ship  rolled  over  her  crew  was 
drowned. 

That,  in  effect,  was  very  nearly  the  opinion  of  those 
magistrates  and  assessors  who  sat  on  Monday  morning  at 
Jake  Hall  to  pronounce  sentence  on  Denis  O'Hagan  and 
Lucy  O'Hagan  and  any  baby  O'Hagan  which  might  be 
stupid  enough  to  get  itself  born — only  they  said  it  in 
better  phrasing ;  the  sleek,  cock-sure  phrasing  of  all 
departmental  papers,  as  those  may  read  who  desire — 

(No.  0000.) 

"SPHINX"  (S.S.) 

THE  MERCHANT  SHIPPING  ACT,  1894. 

In  the  matter  of  a  formal  Investigation  held  at  Jake  Hall  on  the  15th, 
16th,  17th  and  21st  days  of  January,  1908,  before  Sir  Carl  Froester, 
Knight,  F.R.G.S.,  and  William  Jones,  M.A.,  F.R.G.S.,  Esquire, 
two  of  His  Majesty's  Justices  of  the  Peace,  for  the  City  and 
County  of  Northerton,  assisted  by  Captain  O.  K.  Barness  and 
Captain  James  Arthur  Thomas  (Nautical  Assessors),  into  the 
circumstances  attending  the  loss  of  the  British  steamship  Sphinx, 
of  Northerton,  with  fifteen  members  of  her  crew,  on  Pradanack 
Point,  Cornwall,  on  the  night  of  September  the  15th,  1907. 

Report  of  Court. 

The  Court  having  carefully  inquired  into  all  the  circumstances  attending 
the  above-mentioned  Shipping  Casualty,  finds,  for  reasons  stated 
in  the  Annex  hereto,  that  the  Sphinx  went  ashore  on  Pradanack 
Point,  during  a  S.W.  gale  of  considerable  force,  on  the  night  of 
September  the  15th,  1907. 

The  Court  is  of  opinion  that  the  Sphinx  was  not  navigated  with  proper 
and  seamanlike  care.  There  was  no  proper  and  efficient  use  ot 
the  lead.  At  the  time  of  the  wreck  it  appears  that  the  ship  was 
in  charge  of  the  Mate,  and  that  the  Master  was  in  his  room. 

The  Court  is  of  opinion  that  considering  the  state  of  the  weather  it 
would  have  been  wiser  if  the  Master  had  remained  on  deck, 

£  2 


52  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

especially  when  it  is  remembered  that  no  very  reliable  observations 
had  been  taken  in  order  to  fix  the  ship's  position  before  making 
the  land. 

The  Court  is  of  opinion  that  the  Master  failed  to  exercise  that  wise 
discretion  which  experience  has  taught  it  to  expect  of  British 
Shipmasters,  and  with  great  reluctance  has  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  is  necessary  to  mark  its  sense  of  his  failure.  The  Master's 
Certificate  is  therefore  suspended  for  a  period  of  six  calendar 
months. 

The  Court  is  of  opinion  that  the  Mate  acted  unwisely  in  continuing  to 
steer  the  course  set  by  the  Master  without  at  any  time  attempting 
to  verify  his  position  by  the  use  of  the  lead.  In  view  of  these 
facts  the  Court  finds  that  the  Mate  committed  a  very  serious 
error  of  judgment  in  not  calling  the  Master,  in  not  hauling  off  the 
coast,  or  heaving  to  until  it  became  possible  to  ascertain  the  exact 
position  of  the  ship.  In  these  circumstances  the  Court  has  no 
option  but  very  reluctantly  to  suspend  the  Mate's  certificate  for  a 
period  of  nine  calendar  months. 

The  Court  finds  that  the  Sphinx  was  in  good  and  seaworthy  condition 
when  leaving  New  York.  She  was  well  and  efficiently  equipped 
and  laden  in  accordance  with  the  Regulations. 

Dated  this  25th  day  of  January,  1908, 

CARL  FROESTER  )   T  , 
WILLIAM  JOXES  j  **** 

We  concur  in  the  above  Report, 

O.  K.  HARNESS  )   . 

JAMES  ARTHUR  THOMAS  j  Auunr>- 

The  annex  to  this  report  was  set  forth  in  many  pages  of 
closely  typed  matter.  In  it  the  court  explained  the  reasons 
which  guided  it,  tore  to  shreds  the  captain's  allegations 
concerning  the  deckload,  ruled  out  of  court  the  sugges- 
tions of  barratry,  expressed  the  opinion  that  it  was  unwise 
to  over-insure  seeing  how  open  such  a  course  was  to  mis- 
conception, then  with  a  scuffle  of  importance  decided  that 
the  question  of  insobriety  should  never  have  been  made 
on  the  evidence  adduced ;  but,  with  a  back  hander, 
pointed  to  the  fact  that  Captain  O'Hagan  had  called  no 
witnesses  from  the  crew  of  the  ship. 

And  when  these  matters  had  been  made  plain  in  Jake 
Hall,  O'Hagan  rose  and,  standing  to  confront  these  busi- 
ness men  with  their  satellite  advisers,  said — 

"  I  protest  against  your  sentence.  It  is  unjust  and 
unwise.  If  any  appeal  is  possible  in  a  case  of  this  kind, 
I  give  notice  that  I  shall  appeal." 

The  chairman,  frowning  on  this  stupidity,  advised 
Captain  O'Hagan  to  consult  his  lawyer  and  not  waste  the 
time  of  the  court. 


WE  CONCUR 


53 


Even  a  Bottle-filler  should  have  known  what  answer 
would  be  his. 

O'Hagan  moved  away  to  consider  this  view,  and  with 
him  went  Hargreaves  and  grey-haired  Jimmy  Barlow 
— all  manifestly  sobered  by  this  sentence  which  is  no 
sentence. 

A  squall  broke  over  the  town  as  they  stood  together  to 
discuss  it  and  they  crowded  back  for  shelter.  Hail,  sleet 
and  a  blinding  gale  drove  through  the  street ;  the  towns- 
men disappeared  swiftly  to  await  a  lull ;  but  out  there, 
farther  east,  groups  of  men  struggled  to  disentangle  from 
casks  and  cases  and  spars,  the  bodies  of  sailormen  who, 
having  no  alleyways  or  passages  for  escape,  must  needs 
stand  and  take  what  Nature  provides  of  chastisement. 


CHAPTER   III 

LUCY 

O'HAGAN  was  not  on  the  cliffs  watching  dead  sailors 
fished  out  of  the  surf  on  that  day  of  days ;  he  was  marching 
streets  where  the  traffic  was  densest,  contemplating  this 
blow  which  had  fallen  upon  him.  It  meant  not  only  sus- 
pension, but  the  patent  fact  that  he  had  been  found  guilty 
of  negligence.  As  a  corollary,  of  course,  there  lay  at  his 
door  the  death  by  drowning  of  Little  Steel  and  the  fourteen 
he  was  attempting  to  save. 

That  should  have  weighed  heavily  on  O'Hagan,  but  it 
did  not — and  for  the  very  valid  reason  that  he  understood 
why  the  Sphinx  had  become  a  wreck  and  the  court  did  not. 
The  phase  that  troubled  him  was  that  personal  note  which 
arrives  in  cases  of  unjust  punishment.  Who,  for  instance, 
would  believe  that  he  was  any  other  thing  than  a  fool  ? 
Who  would  credit,  in  the  face  of  that  sentence,  that  the 
fault  lay  on  other  shoulders  than  his  ?  Does  not  the  world 
always  wag  tongue  over  the  poor  devil  who  has  gone  down 
before  its  courts  ?  Was  it  concerned  with  the  blazoned 
stupidity  of  magistrates  when  sitting  with  assessors  to 
judge  sailors  ?  Has  it  any  thought  at  all  for  the  men  who, 
when  presently  it  is  engaged  in  war,  will  be  there,  sword 
drawn  to  defend  it  ?  Was  it  not  comfortable  and  snug 
and  blind ;  busy  squabbling  over  the  right  to  strike,  the 
right  to  free  food  and  the  right  to  make  some  other  body 
pay  for  it  ? 

The  clamour  of  a  world  too  busy  to  be  just  stood  over 
this  man,  pushing  him  to  earth. 

The  devil  of  it  all  was  that  O'Hagan  did  not  know  what 
he  faced.  He  was  concerned  with  his  own  humiliation,  the 
wreckage  of  that  scheme  for  personal  success  and  advance- 
ment which  he  had  mapped  out.  Before  he  met  Lucy  he 
had  not  been  very  much  stirred  by  ambition.  He  was  in 
comfortable  quarters.  He  had  a  sufficiency.  He  met 
decent  people,  and  the  work,  if  monotonous,  was  not 
exasperating ;  but  with  the  advent  of  Lucy  Faulkner  all 


LUCY  55 

that  was  changed.  He  became  anxious  to  provide  her 
with  pretty  things.  He  desired  success  that  she  might 
honour  him,  and  above  all  that  he  might  give  the  lie  to 
that  old  croaker,  Colonel  Faulkner,  who,  it  seemed,  had 
ventured  to  disparage  him.  And  now  this  judgment 
which  had  been  passed  upon  him  would  give  the  man  a 
handle  ;  perhaps  the  very  handle  he  required. 

He  turned  abruptly  from  the  great  shops  of  a  main 
street  and  sought  seclusion  in  the  dingier  quarter.  He  was 
raw  and  whipped  and  angry.  The  whippers  were  people 
who  had  no  right  to  wield  whips.  They  knew  nothing, 
nothing,  as  God  stands  over  us,  of  the  conditions  which 
make  for  wrecks  and  collisions  and  disaster  at  sea.  Then 
what  right  had  they  with  the  whips  ?  Why  had  they 
singled  out  him,  and  that  unfortunate  mate  of  his,  for 
punishment  ? 

He  came  suddenly  to  a  standstill  over  a  question  which 
appeared  as  he  marched — suppose  these  magistrate  fools 
were  in  league  with  shipowners — with  his  owners.  They 
were  all  men  of  the  same  kidney.  Swollen  in  pocket  and 
swollen  of  head.  "  Shore-going  sharks."  People  who 
had  a  "  natural  down  on  sailors,"  people  of  the  same  type 
as  the  flunkeys  and  underlings  who  seize  upon  a  ship  as 
soon  as  she  comes  alongside,  by  Jove  !  and  hang  to  her 
skirts  until  she  moves  away  again. 

He  walked  on  because  men  and  boys  stared.  He  walked 
on  because  he  must  do  something  and  did  not  know  what. 
Because  he  could  not  go  home  yet,  could  not  face  the  streets 
where  he  was  known  while  it  remained  light.  Because  he 
would  rather  not  face  Lucy,  with  his  news,  until  the  dusk 
had  come. 

An  older  man  would  have  been  stunned  by  the  sentence 
meted  out  by  these  magistrates  of  Jake  Hall.  He  would 
have  known  just  how  hard  he  had  been  hit  by  it.  He 
would  have  acquired,  in  a  life  singularly  proficient  in  snubs, 
the  knowledge  that  if  a  man  is  suspended  in  the  mercantile 
marine  he  may  as  well  end  matters  speedily.  The  shock 
of  that  sentence  might  have  sent  him  home  reeling  or  it 
might  have  found  him  at  the  beginning  of  a  gentle  slide 
into  oblivion  ;  at  the  top  of  a  pleasant  hill  at  the  bottom 
of  which  cadgers  stand  fully  revealed,  shameless. 

O'Hagan  entered  a  shop  where  they  catered  for  those 
who  desire  lunch  and  sat  behind  the  paper  he  had  pur- 
chased, turning  pages  to  seek  evidence  that  his  name  was 


56  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

on  the  tongues  of  all.  A  small  paragraph  at  the  bottom  of 
a  page  reciting  the  judgment  should  have  advised  him 
how  little  it  mattered  ;  but  it  added  fuel  to  the  already 
blazing  fire.  He  could  not  eat.  He  sat  there  toying  with 
food,  his  thoughts  busy  piecing  together  this  fact  and  that 
fact ;  going  over  the  evidence  which  had  been  produced 
for  his  undoing,  angry,  humiliated,  ready  to  quarrel  with 
his  shadow. 

That  is  where  a  man  young  as  O'Hagan  feels  his  hurts. 
His  pride  is  touched.  Later,  when  he  has  recovered  from 
repeated  blows  he  discovers  that  pride  is  a  mistake  ;  that 
pride,  when  a  man  happens  to  belong  to  the  merchant 
service,  is  a  quality  best  carried  in  his  pocket. 

O'Hagan  was  sensitive — that,  too,  was  a  mistake  for  a 
man  who  aspired  to  make  money  by  commanding  a  tramp. 
He  required  the  hide  of  a  walrus  and  Nature  had  dealt 
him  a  skin  which  could  flush.  He  had  come  from  a  fine 
Service  into  the  service  of  the  small,  and  he  had  not  yet 
learned  the  whole  gamut  of  his  descent.  It  was  like 
resigning  from  the  managership  of  the  Bank  of  England 
and  taking  the  managership  of  a  small  provincial  branch  of 
a  joint  stock  bank. 

And  he  had  not  yet  learned  the  difference. 

He  came  away  from  the  restaurant  because  he  could  not 
well  remain  there  longer.  He  came  out  and  found  that 
the  January  light  was  already  failing.  The  tired  sun  was 
on  its  way  to  bed  through  a  glow  of  crimson  and  blue. 
Behind  him  the  river  ran  grey  on  its  way  to  the  sea.  Once 
that  picture  had  reminded  him  of  his  home  in  the  south 
where  for  the  past  ten  months  he  had  been  able  to  call 
himself  a  householder ;  but  with  the  exception  of  one  or 
two  aspects,  common  to  most  seaports,  there  was  little 
resemblance  between  the  two  towns.  This  north-land 
city  was  sturdy  as  are  the  western  dalesmen.  It  stood 
regally  above  its  river.  It  was  busy,  intent  on  money- 
making  and  very  competent  to  hold  its  own. 

Ships  were  being  built  across  there  on  the  northern  shore 
for  the  service  of  England.  Ships  of  war,  giant  and  pigmy, 
ships  intended  to  carry  food  for  the  nation,  ships  intended 
to  fight  the  nation's  battles. 

The  clang  of  steel  and  iron  rang  out  as  O'Hagan  moved 
up  the  slope.  The  grey  streets  echoed  with  the  noise  of 
blows.  Steam  came  out  in  sudden  jets  which  hissed  far 
up  amidst  the  houses.  There  followed  interminably  the 


LUCY  57 

jar  of  shunting,  little  staccato  whistles,  the  puff  of  engines 
in  a  great  hurry  to  start  hauling. 

O'Hagan  scarcely  heard  these  sounds.  They  were  as 
far  off  as  the  noise  of  rockets,  the  wind  swirl  by  the  cliffs 
and  the  roll  of  the  surf  out  there  where  the  sea  strove.  He 
walked  with  less  elasticity  than  was  usual.  He  seemed 
uncertain,  perhaps  of  his  way — yet  during  the  weeks  he 
had  stayed  here,  he  had  learned  to  know  each  step  ;  each 
trick  and  turn  of  the  roofs,  precisely  as  he  knew  the 
landmarks  which  led  to  his  home  at  Riverton.  He  was 
tired — and  he  was  dazed. 

Lucy  awaited  his  coming,  otherwise  the  streets  would 
not  have  held  him.  Her  presence  up  there  drew  him  on. 
It  also  made  his  progress  slow. 

Occasionally  she  came  to  meet  him,  but  to-day  he  was 
alone.  He  was  glad  for  the  first  time.  The  hour  was 
boisterously  intent  on  proving  that  the  gale  was  not  dead  ; 
that  the  night  would  hear  its  voice  even  as  the  day.  It 
would  press  screaming  at  the  windows,  shaking  the  sashes, 
compelling  the  smoke  to  stay  where  it  was  born.  Oh  !  a 
fit  day  and  a  fit  hour  for  that  slow  recognition  of  the  blow 
which  had  brought  him  suddenly  from  the  clouds,  made 
him  think,  set  a  puzzled  frown  upon  a  brow  usually  cheery 
as  the  stars. 

Two  hours,  three,  four  hours  ago,  he  knew  not  what 
space  of  time  had  elapsed,  his  trial  came  to  an  end  in  the 
breezy  atmosphere  of  Jake  Hall,  where  crowds  waited 
the  Monday's  toll  of  the  streets.  The  sleek  magistrate 
pronounced  sentence  and  passed  on  to  deal  with  the 
drunk  and  disorderly. 

O'Hagan  insisted  on  that  word.  It  was,  in  spite  of 
departmental  definition,  in  spite  of  the  report  it  issued,  a 
Trial  and  Sentence  of  absolute  humiliation  to  O'Hagan. 
You  could  see  it  in  his  downcast  eyes,  in  the  way  he  looked 
at  people  who  passed,  as  though  he  carried  the  certificate 
of  stupidity,  the  credentials  of  negligence  and  ignorance, 
of  attempted  barratry  on  his  person  and  anyone  could  read 
them.  Tradesmen  standing  in  the  doors  of  their  shops 
received  no  recognition  of  their  habitual  courtesy.  The 
captain  moved  on  as  though  he  would  have  avoided  any- 
thing in  the  form  of  salutation.  "  Perhaps  his  Trial  " 
— they,  too,  spoke  of  it  in  police  court  phrasing — "  was 
over."  An  evening  paper  must  be  purchased  to  establish 
this. 


58  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

You  may  call  this  a  tragedy  or  a  farce,  as  you  will ;  but 
to  those  who  have  endured  it,  it  is  a  Trial  and  nothing 
less. 

Hypercritical  ?  Not  at  all.  The  end  may  see  a  man 
triumphant  or  prostrate  ;  but  he  has  come  through  courts 
which  tackle  the  drunk  and  disorderly.  It  may  be  the 
making  of  him,  or  it  may  be  the  death  of  him — morally, 
professionally,  physically.  You  cannot  grasp  its  results 
from  newspaper  comment — you  must  have  endured  it  to 
understand  quite  how  devilish  are  the  blows  it  may  deal. 

And  here,  climbing  through  the  gale-swept  streets,  came 
O'Hagan  at  last,  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  coat,  his  collar 
turned  up,  his  lips  very  straight.  He  had  decided,  you 
see,  and  Lucy  had  agreed,  that  there  could  be  no  aftermath 
of  sorrow,  no  pushing  home  of  the  indignity  he  must  suffer. 
All  the  sorrow,  for  Lucy,  had  been  crammed  into  that  night 
when  O'Hagan's  ship  had  gone  to  pieces  in  Mount's  Bay ; 
all  the  dread  into  the  few  succeeding  days. 

Until  that  hint  had  fallen  at  the  trial,  of  insobriety, 
no  real  anxiety  disturbed  the  girl.  She  understood  that 
there  must  be  an  Inquiry,  and  commonsense  told  her  it 
would  be  unpleasant  for  her  husband — but  there  it  ended. 
And  now  O'Hagan  stood  before  the  door  of  his  sitting- 
room  wondering  what  he  must  say — how  he  could  tell 
her  his  news  ;  stood,  without  turning  the  latch. 

Lucy  heard  his  step  on  the  stairs.  She  heard  him  halt 
on  the  landing.  The  rest  was  a  lightning  process  in 
divination.  She  knew  that  dear  old  Den  had  got  it  pretty 
badly.  She  knew  that  something  had  come  of  that  mud- 
slinging.  She  knew  he  was  hurt,  and  in  a  second  the  door 
between  them  stood  open  and  Lucy's  arms  were  about  his 
neck. 

She  hummed  rather  than  sang — 

"  Come  in,  dear  dearest — it's  cold  and  blust'ry  in  the 
street.  .  .  ." 

He  checked  her  with  kisses,  whispering — 

"  Arms  down,  my  Mem-sahib.  .  .  .  No,  no,  right  down. 
You  promised  .  .  .  and  if  you  don't  try  to  remember  I 
shall  have  to " 

With  her  lips  she  silenced  him.  Her  arms  slipped 
obediently  to  a  safe  level  while  with  her  fingers  she 
straightened  his  tie. 

There  was  no  one  on  that  shabby  landing,  no  one  peep- 
ing, no  maid,  no  landlady,  nothing  more  intrusive  than 


LUCY  59 

a  cracked  Toby  jug  standing  on  a  macrame-work  bracket 
to  grin  at  them. 

"  I  promise  again,"  she  answered  smiling,  radiant 
despite  the  setting.  "  I'll  promise  anything  you  ask  me 
because  you  are  you,  and  I  love  you ;  and  because  I  am 
going  to  be  very  good  always  now  .  .  .  until — 

"  Poor  little  woman  !  "  he  ventured,  holding  her  close. 

"  Happy  little  woman  !  "  she  retorted,  her  head  on  his 
shoulder. 

They  entered  their  small  sitting-room  with  the  air  of 
people  without  difficulties,  from  whose  lives  problems 
were  banished  ;  who  had  pushed  fear,  sorrow  and  all  other 
stupidities,  as  Lucy  called  them,  into  the  cupboard  with 
Den's  coat  and  hat. 

"  And  now  have  tea,  dearest,"  said  the  voice  of  Mrs. 
O'Hagan  gaily  from  the  other  side  of  a  table.  "  It's  ready, 
you  know.  I  have  the  kettle  here,  the  pot  here,  and  your 
chair  and  slippers  are  there."  She  pointed  tragically  at  a 
small  footstool  beside  her  and  O'Hagan  slipped  down  to  it 
and  leaned  back  seeking  her  eyes. 

"  Tea  first,  my  husband,"  she  flashed,  reading  without 
difficulty  a  confirmation  of  the  guess  she  had  made  on 
meeting.  "  It  has  been  a  horrider  day  than  ever.  I  tried 
to  go  for  a  walk  .  .  .  but  I  couldn't  stand  .  .  .  and  when 
it  didn't  rain  it  hailed  or  '  snawed,'  as  they  say  up  here, 
and  so  I  just  gave  it  up  and  sat  watching  the  fire.  .  .  ." 

She  filled  the  teapot  and  set  it  on  its  tray. 

"  It's  curious,"  she  went  on  as  he  made  no  sign,  "  what 
pictures  you  can  see  in  the  fire — if  you  look  long  enough, 
and  how  they  always  belong  to  one  as  it  were.  ...  I 
mean,"  she  explained,  leaning  towards  him  so  that  her 
cheek  touched  his  hair,  "  in  a  personal  sense.  You,  for 
instance,  may  be  reading  quite  a  long  story  there,  but  I, 
who  am  very  near,  cannot  tell  what  it  is,  you  see. 

"  In  a  way,  you  know,  that  is  sad  " — she  spoke  with  the 
reasoned  accent  of  thirty,  when  the  sum  total  of  her  sins 
had  been  accomplished  in  something  less  than  nineteen 
years — "  but  on  the  other  hand,  perhaps,  one  should  be 
glad,  because,  you  know,  one  would  not  care  to  think 
that  everybody  could  tell  what  one  was  reading — if  it 
was  very,  very  secret.  ..." 

He  looked  up.  He  could  not  resist  that  touch,  that 
mother  touch,  so  light,  so  caressing  on  his  brow.  She  let 
her  hand  remain  quite  still  in  his. 


60  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  But  you  have  no  secrets,  sweetheart  ?  "  he  said  with  a 
slight  mitigation  of  the  frown. 

With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  a  caress  in  her  glance,  she 
advised  him  of  his  fatuity — 

"  As  though  one  could  help  having  secrets — hopes, 
wishes,  longings,  you  know,  for  the  people  one  loves  .  .  . 
yes,  and  perhaps  for  oneself.  You  have,  haven't  you, 
Den  ?  " 

"  That  sort  ?  "  he  smiled,  in  hand  at  last.  "  Lord,  yes 
— acres  of  them." 

"  All  about  success,  and — and  doing  things  ?  " 

"  Yes— even  about  that." 

"  And  never  being  beaten,  my  darling  ?  "  she  whispered, 
close,  close  in  his  ear. 

"  Rather." 

He  choked  over  the  word  and  she  leaned  towards  him, 
her  head  bowed  upon  his  shoulder.  He  slid  one  arm  about 
her  waist  and  held  her. 

*'  I've  got  it  pretty  badly,  little  woman,"  he  said  quietly. 

She  snuggled  closer  in  his  arms. 

"  As  though  I  couldn't  have  told  you  that,"  she  said 
through  sobs,  "  as  though  ...  as  though  anyone 
w-w-with  half  a  heart  and  n-n-no  eyes  at  all  couldn't  have 
told.  .  .  ." 

"  Please  !  "  he  begged,  his  arm  tightening. 

44  Yes  ...  in  a  minute.  Oh  !  I'm  such  a  little  fool — 
I've  been  saying  it  over  and  over  and  over — '  I  won't  cry 
— I  won't  ...  I  won't '  .  .  .  and  here  I  am  simply 

howling  like  a  ...  a  ...  tabby "  She  wrenched 

free  and  found  a  small  handkerchief.  "  I  won't  cry,"  she 
reiterated.  "  I  won't.  We'll  have  tea  and  I  won't  be  a 
fool  any  more." 

He  captured  her  hands  and  held  them  to  his  lips. 
"  Better  get  it  over  and  have  done  with  it,"  he  urged. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  her  cheek  resting  against  his. 

He  took  a  deep  breath  and  said  in  a  voice  she  scarcely 
recognised — 

"They  have  suspended  me,  my  darling — and,  and 
Jimmy  Barlow,  too.  .  .  ." 

"  Suspended  ?  "  she  faltered,  scarcely  the  wiser. 

"  Taken  away  our  tickets,  you  know ;  mine  for  six 
months,  Barlow's  for  nine." 

"  Your  tickets  ?  "  She  forced  a  way  to  peer  into  his 
eyes,  her  own  startle^ . 


LUCY  61 

"  They  call  them  certificates  of  competency  at  the 
Board,"  he  explained,  "  and  as  it  seems  we  are  incom- 
petent they  have  taken  them  away." 

"Incompetent — you?"  she  flamed  instantly.  "How 
dare  they  !  How  dare  they  !  What  do  you  mean,  dear 
.  .  .  you  aren't  laughing  at  me  ?  No,  no,  I  know  you 
are  not.  Oh  !  my  poor  darling,  what  does  it  mean  ?  I 
can't  understand  very  well.  I  know  about  the  Army  and 
Navy ;  but  not  this.  I  am  stupid,  I  expect — and  my 
head  throbs.  .  .  .  Tell  me  what  it  means." 

He  rose  from  the  low  seat  she  had  prepared  for  him  and 
took  her  in  his  arms,  seeking  to  minimise  the  blow  that 
had  fallen.  He  kneeled  beside  her,  marking  her  pallor, 
trying  to  inspire  hope  when  hope  was  dead. 

"  It  means  that  for  six  months  I  mayn't  go  to  sea  as 
captain,  little  woman,  that  is  all.  .  .  ." 

"  But — but,"  she  interrupted,  "  you  won't  have  to  go 
to  prison — will  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  he  nearly  laughed  at  this,  but  the  terror  in 
her  eyes  restrained  him.  "  I  am  free — free  as  the  air.  I 
may  do  anything  I  like  but  be  a  captain,  for  six  months, 
that  is  all." 

The  cloud  lifted.     Lucy  looked  up  sighing. 

"  I  was  so  frightened,"  she  whispered.  "  I  thought 
perhaps  they  would  put  you  in  prison." 

"  No,"  he  assured  her,  calm  in  the  knowledge  that  his 
burden  was  shared,  "  we  haven't  quite  reached  that  stage 
yet."  He  might  have  added  that  he  was  not  sure  how  long 
officers  were  likely  to  remain  immune  in  this  respect,  but 
he  dared  indulge  in  no  cynicism  with  that  clinging  delicate 
touch  upon  his  breast.  Instead  he  said  with  a  fine  show 
of  indifference — "  I  shall  have  to  get  something  else  to 
do,  for  a  while  .  .  .  get  a  berth,  you  know,  and  try  to 
earn  a  bit  of  money." 

She  watched  him  in  awe. 

"  Of  course  it  can  be  done,"  he  resumed.  "  There  are 
all  sorts  of  billets  to  be  had  for  the  seeking,  and  I  have  my 
shares,  you  remember,  and  the  rest  of  my  legacy.  Oh ! 
we  can  peg  out  all  right  if  only  I  can  manage  to  pick  up  a 
job  in  the  interval.  ...  I  am  pretty  fit,  and  ..." 

"  You  are  my  husband,  darling." 

"  Rather  a  failure,  so  far,  Mem-sahib,"  he  threw  back, 
rueful. 

"  I  won't  hear  it.  .  .  ." 


62  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  True,  though.  .  .  ." 

"  No — it  is  not  true.  You  were  splendid  in  your 
wreck  .  .  .  the  papers  said  so,  and  you  were  splendid  in 
court — I  heard  that  myself.  ..." 

"  I  was  snuffed  out  in  court,"  he  ventured,  still  anxious 
that  she  should  not  build  too  lightly. 

"  People  don't  get  snuffed  out  if  they  have  grit,"  she 
answered,  the  colour  again  in  her  cheeks,  the  firelight 
accentuating  it. 

"  A  man  fights,"  said  O'Hagan  grimly  cognisant  of  the 
future.  "  When  he  has  a  wife  he  fights  harder  .  .  .  but 
if  he  fails  .  .  ." 

"  He  never  fails,  my  husband.  He  may  go  under — but 
if  he  fights  he  has  not  failed." 

And  that  they  sealed,  as  children  seal  a  compact ;  then 
Lucy,  lingering  still  in  his  arms,  whispered — 

"  After  all,  I  believe  I  am  glad,  Den." 

"  Glad  ?  " 

"  Well,"  she  explained,  the  colour  slowly  mounting, 
"  if  you  had  sailed  again  you — you  could  not  have  been 
back  by  the  time  ...  by  April.  And — oh !  my  darling, 
I  don't  think  I  could  have  let  you  go  just  when  I  should 
have  .  .  .  have  wanted  you.  ..." 

With  a  swift  turn  she  broke  off  and  hid  her  face  on  his 
shoulder. 


CHAPTER  IV 

YESTERDAY 

THE  trouble  for  these  two  was  not  that  they  were  with- 
out resources,  but  that  in  a  world  of  leaping  expenditure 
those  resources  were  so  slender  on  the  side  of  what  is 
termed  unearned  increment. 

Their  joint  income  as  a  matter  of  fact,  apart  from  any 
provided  by  O'Hagan  in  his  capacity  as  a  Bottle-filler,  was 
about  seventy-five  pounds  per  annum.  Denis,  you  see, 
held  a  few  shares  in  an  Argentine  railway  which  brought 
him  in  twenty-five  pounds  yearly,  and  Lucy  had  a  small 
jointure  from  her  mother  which  produced  fifty  pounds 
in  four  quarterly  payments. 

A  revenue  this  which  is  scarcely  more  than  pin-money  ; 
but  a  godsend  to  people  suffering  under  the  award  of  a 
departmental  inquiry.  It  was  not  indeed  a  very  safe 
provision,  as  times  go,  whereon  to  assume  the  cares  and 
duties  of  housekeeping ;  yet  they  faced  them  without 
qualms,  very  much  as  Englishmen  face  even  sterner 
affairs.  They  could  worry  through. 

Their  friends  almost  without  exception  were  loud  in 
their  prophecies  of  disaster.  They  said  that  Lucy  must 
be  mad,  and  her  uncle,  a  shelved  veteran  of  the  Army,  told 
her  she  was  a  fool. 

"  If  you  want  to  marry  anybody,  why  not  take  on  Peter 
Witter  spoon  ?  "  he  inquired. 

To  which  Lucy  replied  that  Mr.  Witterspoon  had  not 
asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  that  if  he  did  she  would 
refuse. 

"  Then,"  said  Colonel  Faulkner,  "  you  should  sit  tight. 
Better  marry  a  Sub  without  a  stiver  beyond  his  pay,  by 
gad  !  than  a  skipper  in  the  merchant  service.  In  either 
case  you'll  spend  your  days  packing  your  kit  and  following 
your  man — if  you  want  to  see  him — up  and  down  the 
seven  seas ;  but  a  Sub  has  a  position  and  that  is  more 
than  one  can  say  for  these  poor  devils  in  the  merchant 
service." 


64  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

And  of  course  Lucy  very  disdainfully  replied  to  the 
shelved  veteran  that  if  she  could  not  be  the  wife  of  Denis 
O'Hagan  she  would  be  the  wife  of  no  one — which  is  not 
quite  what  she  meant  to  infer.  Yet  it  was  sufficiently 
definite  to  persuade  Colonel  Faulkner  to  withdraw  his 
opposition.  Indeed,  he  went  so  far  as  to  find  a  hundred 
pounds  "  for  fallals  "  and  promised  to  do  his  best  to  keep 
"  that  mortgage  of  hers  alive." 

Thus  between  them  these  two  enjoyed  "  unearned 
increment "  to  the  tune  of  seventy-five  pounds  a  year  in 
addition  to  the  unplumbed  and  uncharted  depths  of  a 
skipper's  pay,  and  share  in  the  wall-sided  tramp  now 
lying  rusty  and  broken  amidst  the  granite  outposts  of  our 
island. 

To  be  precise  O'Hagan's  pay  at  the  time  of  his  marriage 
was  two  hundred  and  forty  pounds  per  annum — twenty 
pounds  a  month  ;  but  it  was  given  on  the  understanding 
that  he  invested — which  made  it  a  horse  of  another  colour 
— yet  Denis  O'Hagan  took  the  risk. 

A  one-sixty-fourth  share,  then,  stood  against  O'Hagan's 
name  in  the  books  of  Messrs.  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co.,  and 
Mr.  Sharum,  a  large  person  of  the  clean-shaven  brand,  had 
no  difficulty  at  all  in  showing  that  an  additional  hundred 
or  so  could  easily  accrue  on  this. 

"  Take  it  at  the  worst,  Captain  O'Hagan,  and  it  will 
work  out  in  round  figures  with  your  salary  at  three  hundred 
and  forty  pounds  per  annum  ;  at  its  best  four  hundred 
and  fifty  or  five  hundred.  And  all  found,"  he  emphasised 
this  as  was  his  fashion,  by  rolling  it  sonorously  in  his 
throat.  "  All  found  !  That  isn't  bad  for  a  young  man, 
if  I  may  say  so.  Better,  far,  than  anything  I  was  able  to 
achieve  at  your  age — what  do  you  say  ?  " 

And  here  again,  in  spite  of  a  chorus  of  disapproval  from 
those  who  knew,  O'Hagan  decided  to  say  yes. 

Since  that  jovial  day  of  expectation  O'Hagan  had 
flaunted  the  seas  for  nearly  a  year  in  the  gaunt  creation 
known  once  as  the  Sphinx — and  his  dividend  seemed 
difficult  to  obtain. 

But  the  joy  of  it  at  the  time  was  a  thing  to  be  remem- 
bered. Four  hundred  a  year  plus  your  unearned  incre- 
ment of  seventy-five  blessed  pounds  sterling,  was  nearly 
five  hundred  a  year,  by  Jove  !  Five  hundred — and  it 
might  be  nearer  six  I  Why — as  second  officer  of  the 
sedate  and  well-groomed  Saladin,  where  he  first  met  Lucy 


YESTERDAY  65 

Faulkner,  he  was  barely  able  to  finger  fifty.  Again,  to  be 
precise,  although  his  pay  was  ten  pounds  a  month,  his 
uniforms  and  travelling  expenses  plus  the  essential  whisky, 
tobacco  and  tips  left  him  less  than  the  sum  named. 

O'Hagan  had  never  studied  these  questions  before  that 
one  memorable  trip  from  Bombay  to  London  when  Colonel 
Faulkner  came  finally  to  take  his  place  on  the  shelf  at 
Bournemouth,  at  the  order  of  a  paternal  Government. 
Colonel  Faulkner  resented  the  shelf.  He  was  good  for 
twenty  years,  by  gad  !  Mrs.  Faulkner  resented  it.  What, 
she  asked  plaintively,  could  she  do  with  two  maids  and  a 
cook  when  she  had  been  accustomed  to  a  retinue  ?  And 
Lucy,  whose  father,  Major  Faulkner,  had  gone  on  his  last 
hill  war  only  twelve  months  earlier,  acknowledged  that 
life  in  Bournemouth  or  Boscombe  or  any  other  place 
beginning  with  a  B  would  scarcely  be  entrancing  with 
Aunt  Mary  in  command. 

You  see,  it  had  all  come  about  in  the  most  romantic 
fashion.  Lucy  and  her  father  had  gone  to  India  in  the 
Saladin,  and  quite  by  chance,  Major  Faulkner  had  come 
across  young  O'Hagan,  who  also  was  of  Army  stock.  The 
two  men  talked  in  spite  of  the  law  which  forbids  passengers 
to  take  cognisance  of  the  fact  that  there  are  persons  on 
board  termed  officers.  They  found  a  common  kinship, 
rather  distant  but  wholly  glorious,  and  O'Hagan  came  in 
time  under  the  influence  of  Miss  Lucy's  battery. 

Just  how  strong  was  that  battery  may  be  gauged  when 
it  is  made  plain  that  O'Hagan  paid  a  short  visit  on  more 
than  one  occasion  to  Major  Faulkner's  quarters,  and 
finally,  when  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Faulkner  were  disestab- 
lished by  Government  law,  and  that  age  limit  beyond  which 
a  man  is  understood  to  be  a  fool,  Peter  Witterspoon  had 
taken  himself  off  to  Simla.  Lucy  "  rather  liked  "  him — 
that  is  all.  Her  aunt  pressed  his  attractions,  not  forget- 
ting his  purse,  which  rumour  said  was  flooded  ;  but  Lucy 
determined  to  escape,  choosing  once  more  the  Saladin  as 
a  means  of  exit  from  the  land  of  rains  and  plains  and  dak- 
bungalows. 

So  far,  you  perceive,  without  a  thought  of  consequences  ; 
so  far  at  all  events  without  evident  intent.  A  kinship, 
distant,  glorious,  and  on  the  spindle  side  ;  a  recollection 
of  Dad's  outspoken  praise — and  Lucy,  before  Aden  was 
reached,  had  managed  to  let  O'Hagan  know  that  she  had 
not  forgotten. 

B.F.  F 


66  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

People  often  sleep  on  deck  during  the  hot  passage  to  Ras 
Aluleh.  the  cape  of  the  wind's  death,  and  afterwards  for  a 
while  there  is  no  sleeping  below — and  overhead,  perhaps, 
there  marches  an  officer  on  watch,  a  man  to  whom  one  may 
not  speak  at  any  time. 

People  go  ashore,  though,  in  Aden,  Suez,  Port  Said. 
The  coal  dust  is  an  excuse  quite  valid  even  when  dust  of 
another  quality  is  in  the  air.  People  meet  in  the  bazaars, 
or  on  the  sands  by  the  edge  of  the  desert.  People  talk. 
They  wander  far.  The  evening  comes  swiftly  and  it  is 
essential  to  help  people  back  through  streets  where  one 
must  not  blunder  nor  allow  tout-people  to  approach  too 
near — and  it  is  easy  to  remember,  easier,  far  easier  than 
ever  it  will  be  to  forget. 

The  colour  is  so  vivid  ;  the  witchery  of  that  brilliant, 
star-strung  sky  so  impressive ;  the  songs  escaping  half 
closed  doors  so  alluring — and  on  every  hand  the  lithe 
grace  of  dusky  figures  which  glide,  arms  jangling,  ankles 
jangling,  a  shimmer  and  a  hint  of  gauze  their  dress.  And 
the  scent  comes  up  from  the  desert,  the  eastern  dreamland 
beneath  whose  calm  veil  lie  devilry  and  bottomless  sin. 
Hooded  men,  half  veiled  women  pass  and  repass,  the  clang 
of  the  bazaar  goes  on,  the  chant  and  thrum  of  tom-toms 
never  to  be  forgotten,  never  to  be  forgotten  by  those  who 
have  supped  with  the  East. 

Here  on  the  sands  below  Suez  with  the  mountains  of 
Sinai  blue  in  the  distance,  and  the  hill  country  about  Jebel 
Zafarana  which  blushes  with  each  dawn  and  lies  veiled 
by  day  in  shimmering  waves  of  heat ;  near  where  the 
palms  end ;  where  the  promenade  fades  into  a  track  and 
only  the  shadows  of  Arab  huts  stand  against  the  skyline, 
Denis  O'Hagan  took  Lucy  in  his  arms  and,  for  the  first 
time,  kissed  her. 

That  was  a  wonderful  moment  to  Lucy.  The  thrill  of 
it  held  her  still.  The  violet  mystery  of  an  Eastern  night 
had  been  theirs  and  was  hers  for  all  time.  The  waters  of 
the  gulf  came  nearly  to  their  feet  as  they  stood  to  take  that 
kiss  ;  the  lights  of  the  Saladin  were  dimmed  by  distance  ; 
the  sigh  of  palm  and  tamarisk  moved  towards  them  on  the 
wings  of  a  breeze  which  whispered.  They  were  alone  and 
God  was  their  Father.  The  cry  of  the  sons  of  the  desert 
rose  to  proclaim  it — La  ilaha  .  .  .  ilia  'llah  ilia  'llah  ! 

A  dream  so  splendid,  ending  in  a  reality  so  vivid,  does 
not  fade  soon  from  the  memory  of  a  man  ;  how  much  less 


YESTERDAY  67 

it  is  likely  to  fade  from  the  memory  of  a  girl,  the  history 
of  woman's  love  shows.  For  Lucy  was  a  girl  in  years  ; 
but  a  girl  endowed  with  so  fine  an  imagination  that  it 
seemed  that  the  heavens  had  opened  and  that  choirs  of 
angels  sang  pseans  of  joy  over  her  betrothal  there  amidst 
the  sands. 

The  hot,  clean  sands  which  beginning  here  stretch  on 
and  on  in  undulating  waves,  like  a  sea  held  fast  in  a  mould, 
until  the  Atlantic  rolls  to  meet  them  nearly  three  thousand 
miles  from  Suez. 

Thereafter  the  desert  held  as  great  a  charm  for  Lucy  as 
the  sea  which  is  its  sister.  It  held  the  beginning  of  her 
life  as  the  sea,  perhaps,  was  to  hold  the  end.  And  it  had 
the  same  characteristics.  As  the  sea  holds  islands  in  its 
keeping,  white  rimmed,  green  to  the  lapping  waves ;  so 
the  desert  holds  oases,  little  clusters  of  palms,  a  few  huts 
amidst  the  rolling  dunes.  As  the  sea  carries  ships  on 
its  bosom,  so  the  desert  carries  the  tawny,  fleet-footed 
Bisharin,  and  the  long-strung  line  of  a  caravan.  As  the 
sea  broods  over  the  enemies  which  it  has  slain,  so  the 
desert  buries  or  leaves  to  the  glare  of  its  pitiless  sun  the 
men  it  has  vanquished — and  their  voices  remain  in  each 
sphere. 

The  voice  of  the  wilderness  is  but  the  cumulative  cry  of 
those  who  have  succumbed  to  its  force.  It  has  myriad 
tones.  It  can  play  on  any  heart.  It  is  the  voice  of  those 
who  have  lived  and  fought  and  died.  It  is  the  whispering 
spirit  which  touches  us  and  is  not.  Which  comes  upon 
us  in  the  midst  of  a  great  peace  and  fills  us  with  a  dread 
too  great  for  speech  ;  which  beckons  to  us  across  the  gulf 
which  presently  will  swallow  us. 

It  is  the  voice  which  cries  out  in  warning,  which  laughs 
and  cajoles,  and  makes  mock  of  men's  anguish  ;  even  as 
the  sea  laughs,  having  mastered  him  and  blotted  him  out. 


F  2 


CHAPTER  V 

AND  GOD  HAD  MADE  THEM  ONE 

THE  O'Hagans  were  at  home  again.  The  stuffy 
lodging-house  rooms  had  given  place  to  a  palace  facing 
south,  high  up  on  the  slope  of  Windle  Hill,  with  adjoining 
palaces  or  villas — it  depends  largely  on  your  outlook  how 
you  label  them — in  pairs  all  down  the  road. 

This  road  was  called  Glenview  ;  but  it  bordered  a  rolling 
and  nearly  flat  tableland  overlooking  other  houses  or  villas 
or  palaces  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way.  There  was 
nothing  glen-like  anywhere  within  the  limit  of  that  horizon. 
Far  off,  on  the  right,  were  chimneys — tall,  thin  shafts  which 
pierced  the  sky  ;  on  the  left  was  the  hill  of  Riverton  where 
once  a  mill  had  swung  arms  grinding  corn  for  the  towns- 
people ;  to  the  north  was  the  river  and  a  maze  of  roofs. 

The  O'Hagan's  palace  was  called  Chatsworth  when  they 
took  it ;  but  Lucy,  with  memories  of  India  in  her  brain, 
suggested  The  Deodars,  and  The  Deodars  it  became  to 
the  surprise  of  neighbours  whose  palaces  were  correctly 
styled,  apparently  from  the  latest  list  of  the  "  Country 
Homes  of  England."  York  Cottage  was  among  them. 
Its  name  flourished  on  a  marble  tablet  beside  a  little  iron 
gate.  It  might  have  been  the  sign  of  a  "  monumental 
mason,"  but  was  the  "  residence  "  of  a  pilot. 

To  tell  the  truth  the  houses  had  nothing  of  the  palace 
about  them  but  their  names.  They  were  simple  exposi- 
tions of  the  jerry-builders'  art  of  fudge.  The  roofs  were 
ruled  in  lines  of  blue  and  red,  the  eaves  were  furnished 
with  a  lace  edging  ;  the  windows  were  supported  on  either 
side  by  moulded  pillars.  Stars  and  diamonds  in  shiny 
brick  suggested  the  various  floor  levels.  The  walls  were 
of  alternating  blue  and  red  bricks,  and  a  staring  pavement 
of  tessellated  squares  and  angles  led  from  the  little  iron 
gate  to  each  front  door. 

The  sense  of  some  of  those  who  lived  in  this  row  of 
"  semi-detached  dwellings  "  was  exhibited  by  those  who 
had  striven  with  ampelopsis  to  hide  their  ugliness  from 


AND  GOD  HAD  MADE  THEM  ONE    G9 

the  sun.  The  sense  of  others  by  the  addition  of  variegated 
window  boxes,  plaster  vases,  and  in  one  instance  a  bevy 
of  terra-cotta  statues  disporting  at  the  corners  of  a  grass 
plot,  guarded  by  a  pair  of  terra-cotta  lions,  diminutive, 
sad  of  mien. 

Of  course  it  is  impossible  to  obtain  exactly  what  you 
desire  when  you  are  prepared  to  pay  merely  thirty-eight 
pounds  annually  as  rent  in  addition  to  rates  and  taxes  ; 
so  Lucy  O'Hagan  had  contrived  to  tone  the  exuberant 
fancy  of  the  builders  by  subduing  the  colour  within,  and 
Denis  had  completed  it  in  a  fashion  more  eloquent  of 
mankind. 

He  had  arrived  home  after  his  first  voyage  hale  and 
jubilant  and  when  Lucy  presently  sat  down  in  a  chair 
alone,  Denis  discovered  that  the  left  side  of  her  face  w.'.s 
painted  green  and  the  side  nearest  him  yellow.  There 
was  a  patch  of  red,  too,  farther  over  upon  the  right 
shoulder  of  the  chair  nearest  her  ear.  Denis  recognised 
that  this  colour  scheme  was  inappropriate  to  cheeks  and 
hair  so  beautiful  as  Lucy's.  Then  he  found  that  it  came 
from  a  fanlight  which  the  builders  had  inserted  above 
the  window,  and  on  consideration  determined  that  it 
suggested  "  the  charnel  fires  of  dead  and  gone  tenants." 
That  would  not  do.  It  was  quite  impossible.  It  was 
absolutely  impossible.  .  .  .  And  having  reached  this  stage 
after  various  examinations  he  marched  to  the  window, 
climbed  a  chair  and  smashed  the  glass  methodically  with 
a  hammer. 

Later  in  the  evening  it  became  apparent  that  it  would 
be  necessary  to  replace  the  glass.  But  O'Hagan  was 
jubilant  in  those  days,  just  home  from  a  voyage  of  three 
months,  and  full  of  worship  for  that  beautiful  girl-wife  of 
his  who  had  awaited  his  coming.  Therefore  he  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  and  told  her  he  wouldn't  be 
gone  a  minute,  and  went  out  to  engage  a  glazier  man  who 
came  the  next  day,  did  as  he  was  told  and  went  away 
licking  his  lips. 

And  now  these  two  were  at  home  again,  trying  experi- 
ments in  household  economy.  It  seemed,  after  the  first 
fortnight,  that  it  would  be  very  difficult  to  find  that  billet 
on  shore  which  had  been  suggested  as  a  possibility  while 
yet  they  had  been  domiciled  in  the  north.  Alternatively 
there  was  the  question  of  living  on  "  unearned  increment  " 


70  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

• — which  meant,  in  their  case,  about  thirty  shillings  a 
week. 

Lucy  had  no  experience  of  this  kind  of  thing.  Nor  had 
Donis.  Yet  they  entered  upon  it  with  a  joke — as  though, 
indeed,  the  problem  of  life  had  no  terrors  for  them,  no 
rate-collectors,  tax-collectors  or  debts  of  any  sort  or  kind 
which  could  affect  the  serenity  of  their  heaven. 

Now  it  was  a  heaven  in  spite  of  the  inelastic  quality  of 
their  income.  A  heaven  so  alluring  that  it  had  been 
decided  Denis  must  not  go  away,  even  if  it  became  possible, 
before  the  summer  came.  In  a  moment  of  supreme 
exaltation  Denis  decided  that  he  would  sink  a  bit  of  capital 
rather  than  go  just  when  Lucy  most  required  his  presence. 
And  when  Lucy  pertinently  asked  where  the  capital  was, 
he  reminded  her  of  his  share  in  that  defunct  old  tramp, 
Sphinx,  which  had  cost  him  about  five  hundred  pounds 
and  soon  would  be  paid  over. 

Of  course  there  was  no  questioning  that.  Lucy  would 
have  doubted  her  own  existence  as  readily  as  Denis' 
word.  Did  he  not  stand  in  her  sight  as  the  ideal  for  all 
time,  the  one  entirely  great  and  splendid  man  wrho  may 
or  may  not  exist  in  reality,  but  who  lives  and  breathes 
for  the  woman  in  all  true  marriage  ?  How  then  could 
she  dream  that  he  was  misinformed  ?  The  idea  never 
stirred.  Nor  did  the  expected  payment  of  capital. 
Even  the  interest  appeared  loath  to  wander  from  the 
coffers  of  the  firm  who  guarded  it. 

The  two  were  occupied  at  this  time  in  searching  the 
columns  of  various  papers  for  those  billets  which  were 
going  begging  for  shorefolk.  They  were  busy  writing 
letters  of  application  and  furnishing  the  open  sesame 
references,  busy  going  to  town  to  interview  business  men 
who  required  secretaries,  firms  who  asked  for  travellers, 
firms  who  offered  in  return  for  a  day  spent  kicking  heels 
in  the  mud  a  tray  of  Brummagem  jewellery,  which  at  a 
price  could  be  hawked  by  the  applicant. 

Oh !  it  became  beautifully  plain  with  time  that  the 
majority  of  those  who  offered  one,  two  or  three  pounds  a 
week  as  an  easy  "  addition  to  your  income,"  were  persons 
engaged  in  catching  gulls  with  claptrap  ;  that  the  secre- 
taryships and  junior  partnerships  were  mythical  as  the 
verbiage  with  which  an  applicant  was  received  was  false. 
These  advertisements  had  their  origin  in  the  brain  of  the 
person  or  company  running  the  agency.  The  situations 


AND  GOD  HAD  MADE  THEM  ONE    71 

did  not  exist — but,  on  payment  of  a  certain  fee,  sometimes 
large,  sometimes  small,  Denis  would  be  advised  from  time 
to  time  of  any  vacancy  which  might  occur. 

Indeed,  it  was  all  admirably  slick  and  glib  and  vague 
and  evanescent.  Money  was  the  desideratum  always  and 
at  each  fresh  juncture — money,  the  ringing,  beautiful 
sovereigns  of  our  Lord  the  King  which  came  so  reluctantly 
into  Denis'  keeping  and  escaped  so  fast.  Sovereigns 
which  he  dared  not  spend  because  of  the  long  halt  which 
had  come  to  that  payment  which  was  due  from  the  owners 
of  the  Sphinx,  Sovereigns  which  were  required  for  food 
and  rent  and  rates  and  taxes  by  a  brave  little  housewife 
who  presently  would  be  unable  to  bustle  and  cook  and  pat 
the  dust  out  of  carpets  and  cushions  which  were  spotless. 
Time  ran  creakingly  in  those  days  for  Denis,  it  ran 
creakingly  also  for  Lucy ;  but  when  Denis  came  home 
tired,  ready  to  own  himself  beaten,  Lucy's  arms  went 
round  him  as  he  drew  her  close  and  nothing  of  the  fear  of 
either  escaped. 

Had  they  not  each  other  ?  Had  they  not  their  home  ? 
And  if  the  small  maid  had  given  notice  were  there  not 
other  small  maids  somewhere  on  the  horizon,  and  would 
it  not  be  quite  easy  to  find  one.  Youth,  you  see,  was  with 
these  two ;  love  which  belongs  to  youth ;  strength  without 
which  either  love  or  youth  is  vain. 

They  discussed  at  this  moment,  with  March  nearly 
upon  them,  and  increasing  difficulty  for  Lucy,  the  problem 
of  doing  without  a  maid  entirely.  But  Denis  would  not 
hear  of  this.  He  decided  that  if  a  maid  was  to  be  found 
in  Riverton  she  should  be  engaged  at  once — then  as  he 
was  going  out  Lucy  took  the  lapel  of  his  coat  between  her 
fingers,  lifted  her  face  and  said — 

"  Oh— Denis  .  .  ."  and  halted. 

He  kissed  the  white  face  so  nearly  level  with  his  own 
and  questioned — "  Yes,  dearest  ?  " 

"  But  I  have  no  money  1  " 

"  None  ?  " 

"  About  two  pounds,  really  .  .  .  but,  but  it's  nearly  a 
month  to  the  25th,  you  know,  and  what  are  we  to  do  until 
that  comes  ?  " 

Denis  turned  out  his  pocket  and  counted  the  coins, 
Lucy  clinging  to  his  arm. 

"  Fifteen  bob  in  silver,"  he  said,  "  and—  '  He  pro- 
duced a  sovereign  purse,  clicked  out  two  and  looked  up 


72  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

blank.  "  I  could  have  sworn  there  were  three,"  he 
announced,  "  if  not  four." 

"  Couldn't  have  been,  my  darling,"  Lucy  decided, 
"  because  you  see  there's  a  spring  there  and  they  couldn't 
jump  out." 

Denis  replaced  the  coins  and  took  Lucy's  face  in  his 
hands.  She  seemed  scared. 

"But  I  thought" — he  stooped  and  kissed  her  lips — 
"  you  had  eight  pounds  on  Saturday " — he  looked, 
smiling,  into  her  dark  eyes.  "  Perhaps  there's  a  hole  in 
your  pocket — or  you  haven't  got  it  all  out  ...  or  there's 
been  a  burglar  in  the  house  .  .  .  or 

She  met  him  at  once,  her  fingers  again  on  the  lapels, 
twining,  twisting,  her  eyes  alight. 

"  The  rate  man  came  yesterday,"  she  told  him,  "  and 
he  ate  an  awful  lot,  Den." 

*'  Went  away  gorged,  eh  ?  " 

"  Five  pounds  fourteen  shillings  and  ten  D.,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Monstrous — and  you  gave  it  ?  " 

"  Had  to,  dearest,  or  be  carted  off  to  the  lock-up  or 
somewhere  dismal  where  they  make  you  pick  oakum  and 
break  stones  for  your  breakfast — and " 

"  No — no — not  stones,  sweet — not  stones,"  Denis 
laughed,  his  arms  about  her,  their  cheeks  touching. 

"  Really,"  she  decided.  "  I  asked  Mrs.  Portland  Lodge 
what  happened  if  you  didn't  pay  rates  and  she  told  me. 
And  the  man  said  he  had  sent  us  the  usual  form  two  months 
ago,  Den,  and  that  since  then  he  had  sent  us  a  pink  paper, 
and  a  yellow  paper,  drawing  our  attention  to  the  fact  that 
we  had  not  paid ;  and  that  if  I  didn't  pay  now  he  would 
be  compelled  to  send  in  the  green  paper  .  .  .  and  that," 
said  Lucy  with  a  quick  pull  at  the  lapel,  "  means  that  you 
would  have  to  go  down  and  pick  oakum  while  they  came 
and  sat  on  our  sofa — so  I  paid,  Den  .  .  .  that  was  right, 
wasn't  it  ?  " 

He  crowed  his  satisfaction.  "  Right,  little  girl  ?  Of 
course  it  was  right.  .  .  .  Faith  !  and  if  it  were  wrong  who 
am  I  that  I  may  fling  stones  ?  " 

"  You  couldn't — at  me,  Den." 

"Oh!  couldn't  I!" 

"  I  should  hold  your  arm,"  she  decided,  her  eyes 
flashing. 

"  And  I  should  .  .  .  no,  I  wouldn't — I  should  kiss  you 
instead." 


AND  GOD  HAD  MADE  THEM  ONE    73 

And  this  having  been  decided  Lucy  questioned  in  her 
turn — 

"  Now  tell  me  what  has  happened  to  yours  ?  " 

"  My  what  ?  " 

"  Money,  dearest  ?  You  said  there  ought  to  be  two 
more." 

"  So  there  ought." 

"  Then  where  is  it  ?  " 

Denis  shook  his  head.  With  one  hand  he  searched  his 
pockets,  with  the  other  held  Lucy.  She  made  no  com- 
plaint. He  examined  his  waistcoat  pockets,  even  turned 
them  inside  out  and  found  no  store  of  gold  lurking  to 
confute  him.  He  patted  his  outer  pockets,  considered 
the  question  of  testing  again  the  accuracy  of  his  count  in 
the  sovereign  purse,  and  looked  at  Lucy. 

"  I  expect  you've  blewed  it,  Den,"  she  said  without  a 
quiver. 

"  I  expect  I  have,"  he  admitted,  rueful. 

"  Looking  for  a  billet  is  an  awful  expensive  thing." 
Lucy  smiled  because  he  looked  grave. 

"  Awful,  Loo." 

"  Just  see  what  you  have  brought  on  yourself  by 
marrying  me,"  she  whispered,  clinging.  "No — no,  I'm 
not  going  to  put  my  arms  up — I'm  not  going  to  make  it 
more  difficult  for  you  .  .  .  and,  and,  Den — we'll  have  to 
do  without  a  maid  when  Jane's  time  is  up." 


CHAPTER  VI 

ONE   IN   A   CROWD 

DENIS  left  home  that  morning  vowing  to  expedite 
matters,  and  before  starting  for  town  sent  a  message  to 
Hargreaves  urging  him  to  press  for  payment  of  the  long- 
deferred  share.  To  his  measureless  optimism  it  seemed 
that  he  had  only  to  express  a  determination  to  wait  no 
longer  and  the  thing  was  done.  Yet,  when  he  reached 
London  the  answer  he  found  said  tersely — 

"  Inadvisable.  Writing,"  a  stupidity  signed,  he  dis- 
covered, by  Hargreaves. 

O'Hagan  turned  this  over  as  he  left  the  West  Strand 
telegraph  office.  He  could  not  understand  why  it  was 
inadvisable  to  press  for  payment.  He  had,  you  see, 
merely  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  business  or  the  methods 
of  those  who  seek  to  evade  their  responsibilities.  It  was 
no  part  of  his  credo  to  walk  mincingly  with  trust.  He 
would  never  attempt  to  "  do  "  a  man  himself ;  how,  there- 
fore, should  he  be  suspicious  ?  On  the  whole  he  was 
rather  inclined  to  think  Hargreaves  "  a  bit  of  a  slacker." 
It  had  been  the  same  when  hot-foot  he  promised  to  appeal 
against  the  magistrates'  decision — but  at  that  time, 
O'Hagan  remembered  he  owed  Hargreaves  a  bill  of  costs 
for  his  defence  which  presently  swallowed  every  penny  of 
reserve  he  had  at  the  bank. 

True,  that  was  paid  off,  but  surely  Hargreaves  could 
not  have  known  how  nearly  "  it  coiled  up  "  the  poor  devil 
who  footed  the  bill  !  O'Hagan  had  much  to  learn.  Any 
business  man  could  have  told  him  that  Hargreaves  knew 
his  position  to  a  decimal  long  before  he  actually  undertook 
his  defence.  And  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  as  O'Hagan 
now  had  no  bank  account,  the  proceedings  for  appeal  were 
stayed.  In  fact,  such  is  the  quality  of  your  hot-brained 
Celt,  now  that  his  anger  had  cooled,  O'Hagan  had  nearly 
forgotten  his  threat ;  but  it  was  likely  to  spring  forth 
again,  as  anyone  may  testify  who  has  attempted  to  roll  a 
strong  man  in  the  mire. 


ONE   IN  A  CROWD  75 

Meanwhile  Denis  had  come  to  town  on  another  will-o'- 
the-wisp  jaunt,  and  moved  off  west  to  present  his  cre- 
dentials. The  question  of  Hargreaves  he  banished.  lie 
walked  briskly  across  Trafalgar  Square  and  came  to  an 
office  at  the  foot  of  the  Haymarket  which  had  dared  to 
proffer,  by  advertisement,  a  salary  of  three  hundred  per 
annum,  "  duties  nominal." 

O'Hagan  was  very  busy  planning  what  he  would  do  with 
that  salary  and  wondering  whether  it  would  be  necessary 
to  give  up  the  palace  at  Riverton  and  take  a  flat  in  town. 
He  rather  liked  the  idea  of  the  flat;  but  felt  rueful  at  having 
to  give  up  his  garden.  He  wondered  what  Lucy  would  say 
to  it  when  he  told  her.  It  would  be  rather  jolly  to  be  able 
to  go  home  and  say,  "  Guess  what  I've  got  hold  of,"  and 
watch  her  while  she  guessed.  She  was  such  a  sweet  soul 
at  guessing.  She  never,  for  instance,  when  he  said,  "  Guess 
what  I  paid  for  that,"  suggested  sixpence  or  two  shillings, 
or  anything  obviously  possible,  but  climbed  to  the 
millionaire  at  once  with,  "  Oh,  perhaps  a  sov.  ?  "  and 
when  he  said,  "  Good  gracious,  my  dear  child  !  why,  you 
know  .  .  ."  she  would  break  in  with,  "  Not  two,  Den. 
Oh  !  you  didn't  ..."  and  he  would  lead  her  by  by-paths 
to  the  dreadful  and  commonplace  actuality. 

"  But  this,"  said  Den,  as  he  turned  upon  his  tracks 
after  consulting  a  policeman  placed  on  point  duty  specially 
to  guide  him,  "  this  will  be  something  worth  keeping 
secret.  Good  Lord  !  if  only  I  can  get  it  !  Three  hundred 
and  duties  nominal  !  " 

A  crowd  were  gathered  about  the  door  when  he  came  to 
it.  He  rather  wondered  what  was  going  on  and  strove 
to  edge  his  way  though.  A  man  wearing  a  tall  hat  and 
heavy  coat  took  exception  to  this  and  said — "  Don't  you 
poose  by  me,"  with  the  accent  of  a  German. 

"  But  I  want  to  get  in  there,"  O'Hagan  answered. 

"  So  alzo  do  I,"  said  the  German,  "  an'  zese,  an'  zese." 
He  nodded  left  and  right  indicating  the  crowd. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  they  are  all  here  as — as  appli- 
cants ?  "  O'Hagan  gasped. 

"  So,"  the  German  nodded,  "  and  we  take  our  durn. 
He  will  see  us  all — everyone,  and  me  he  will  engage." 

"  You  seem  jolly  cocksure,  anyhow,"  O'Hagan  smiled 
as  they  approached  by  a  gradual  process  that  open  door. 

"  Vy  not  ?  I  speak  English  " — he  shrugged  over  this — 
"  since  I  was  a  boy.  I  speak  alzo  German  and  French 


?6  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

and  Spanish.  If  he  require  Italian  or  ozzer  language  I 
learn  them  in  one  monse  from  when  I  begin."  He 
examined  O'Hagan's  sunburned  face  and  added,  "  Vot 
language  can  you  speak  ?  " 

"  I  speak  English,"  said  O'Hagan,  "  and  I  find  most 
people  do  the  same.  Of  course,"  he  added,  as  the  German 
seemed  to  crow,  "  I  know  a  bit  of  French." 

"  And  Latin  ?  "  said  the  German ;  "  alzo  Greek,  per- 
haps ?  " 

"  I  learned  them  at  school,"  O'Hagan  admitted,  "  and 
I  dare  say  I  could  furbish  them  up  if  he  wants  them." 

"  He  vill  not,"  said  the  German.  "  He  vill  require  one 
who  speak  the  language  of  to-day." 

They  came  into  the  passage  way  and  passed  with  a 
shuffle  of  feet  into  a  large  ante-room,  perhaps  two  hundred 
applicants  for  a  position  which  evidently  was  desirable. 
The  majority  were  weedy  youths,  but  there  was  also  a 
considerable  proportion  of  men  with  grey  hair  and  others 
who  were  quite  bald — sedate  fathers  of  families  perhaps. 

They  filed  slowly  to  a  table  at  the  end  of  the  room  where 
a  young  man,  clean  shaven,  keen,  sat  to  receive  them. 
There  were  two  doors  at  the  top  of  this  room,  and  O'Hcigan 
noticed  that  the  stream  of  applicants  parted  as  they  left 
the  table,  some  going  to  the  right,  others  to  the  left.  He 
saw  also  that  the  majority  passed  to  the  left. 

It  was  a  long  while  before  O'Hagan,  who  was  next  to  the 
German  still,  came  near  enough  to  hear  what  was  said  at 
the  table.  Then  it  became  apparent  that  a  weeding  out 
process  was  going  on.  Sometimes  a  keen  look  sufficed  to 
turn  the  applicant  to  the  left,  sometimes  a  few  questions. 
O'Hagan  heard  presently  one  which  made  him  quake — 
"  Do  you  speak  French  and  German  ?  "  What  answer 
was  given  he  did  not  hear  ;  but  the  German,  who  was  in 
front,  seemed  to  dilate  and  stand  more  erect  as  he  turned 
with  the  phrase—"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  " 

And  then  at  length  the  German  approached  the  table 
and  stood  like  a  soldier  at  attention.  The  man  at  the 
table  looked  him  up  and  down  and  at  once  said  in  the 
language  of  the  Fatherland — "  You  are  German,  I  see. 
You  speak  French  also  ?  " 

The  German  answered  in  the  tongue  desired. 

"  English,  of  course  ?  " 

Again  came  the  bowing  acknowledgment — "  Otherwise 
I  would  scarcely  have  ventured  to  intrude." 


ONE   IN  A  CROWD  77 

There  came  a  signal  which  turned  him  to  the  right  and 
O'Hagan  stood  to  take  his  turn.  The  man  at  the  table 
searched  his  face — He  leaned  back  considering,  his  chin  in 
his  hand.  Then  he  said  quietly — 

"  I  can  see  you  are  English — -do  you  speak  either  French 
or  German  ?  " 

"  A  very  little  French — hardly  enough  to  swear  by," 
said  O'Hagan.  "  Latin  I  was  rather  fond  of  at  school,  and 
Greek  enough  to  get  me  into  the  fifth." 

"  I  see " 

"  And  I  have  been  about  the  world  a  great  deal.  I 
know  something  of  most  countries  outside  Europe — • 
America,  Australia,  India  ...  for  instance " 

"  Public  school  boy  ?  " 

"  Winchester." 

"  That's  interesting — but  you  don't  know  French  or 
German — hum.  My  father  makes  that  a  condition." 

O'Hagan's  hopes  fell. 

"  He  is  rather  deaf  and  you  would  be  required  to  travel 
with  him,  arrange  hotels  and  all  that  kind  of  thing — but 
if  you  don't  know  French  or  German — one  would  do  I 
expect — I  think  it  is  rather  hopeless." 

Denis  nearly  at  zero  said  in  a  fumbling  monotone  : 
"  Of  course  the  travelling  would  be  child's  play  to  me  .  .  . 
but,  even  if  I  got  the  chance,  there's  my  wife." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  decides  it.  No — I  am  awfully  sorry. 
The  advertisement  was  inexcusably  stupid  in  form.  We 

have  given  you  a  journey  perhaps "  Then,  seeing 

O'Hagan  flush,  he  added  swiftly,  "  Give  me  your  name  and 
address,  will  you  ?  I  will  talk  it  over  and  send  you  word. 
.  .  .  Winchester  rather  appeals  to  me  .  .  .  oh,  thanks, 
so  much !  "  O'Hagan  had  produced  and  handed  his  card. 
"  Yes — I  could  have  sworn  you  were  an  Irishman — er  .  .  . 
good-day." 

And  with  that  Denis  found  himself  set  to  the  left  and 
presently  in  the  street.  A  crowd  of  those  who  had  passed 
out  before  him  stood  about  the  pavement,  others  were 
moving  away — a  dejected,  and  for  the  most  part  a  shuffling 
group.  O'Hagan  moved  by  those  who  waited,  head  in  aif . 
He  felt  that  he  must  do  something.  He  would  have 
shouted,  but  the  stolid  aspect  of  the  houses  saved  him  that 
madness.  They  said  to  him  plainly — "  Go  home.  Go 
home.  Go  and  read  up  French — or,  go  round  the  corner 
there  and  tumble  into  that  school  where  they  will  prime 


78  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

you  in  an  hour,  make  you  a  foreign  correspondent  in  a 
week  and  a  member  of  the  academy  in  a  year — go,  and 
don't  fool  away  your  time." 

But  Denis  took  to  the  road  at  full  pace.  He  marched 
because  he  might  not  shout,  marched  as  though  for  a 
wager  until  when  halfway  up  Regent  Street  he  suddenly 
remembered  that  he  had  not  the  remotest  idea  who  it  was 
he  had  seen. 

Then  again  he  turned  and  retraced  his  steps,  came  down 
to  Regent  Circus  at  a  hand  trot,  slowed  to  cross  and  at  the 
tube  exit  put  on  speed  once  more.  His  haste  seemed  to 
imply  that  he  feared  forgctfulness  might  overtake  him, 
when  indeed  it  was  just  exaltation,  the  glimmer  grown 
to  a  beacon  and  looming  larger  with  each  minute. 

The  house  still  stood  where  he  had  left  it,  a  crowd  still 
surged  about  its  doors,  old  men,  young  men,  cripples, 
straight,  tall,  short — all  types  and  sizes ;  men  of  education, 
youths  of  none ;  men  with  top  hats,  youths  with  Homburgs 
tilted  jauntily  ;  men  smoking  cigarettes,  youths  without 
exception  smoking,  dangling  or  holding  the  cigarette  they 
would  presently  light,  or  relight,  or  suck  unlighted. 

Oh !  the  house  was  beautifully  plain  and  easy  to  find. 
Denis  could  have  found  it  blindfold  by  the  shuffling  of 
feet.  He  stood  and  looked  upon  it.  Noted  the  number 
afresh.  Saw  that  the  ground  floors  were  occupied  by 
people  of  the  name  of  Brazer,  Furley,  Hammond  &  Co., 
and  that  beneath  the  name  on  each  blind  was  the  one 
word  Solicitors. 

A  grey  old  house  standing  back  from  the  road.  Nothing 
pretentious  about  it.  No  flaunted  trappings.  Nothing 
to  attract  or  to  warn  or  to  dazzle ;  but  immensely 
respectable. 

Denis  returned  to  Riverton  that  night  wondering 
whether  he  had  seen  Brazer,  or  Furley,  or  Hammond — 
whether  indeed  he  had  seen  either.  Yet  what  did  it 
matter  ?  Had  he  not  seen  a  man  who  had  rather  gone 
out  of  his  way  to  encourage  him,  who  had  promised  to 
write  when,  with  a  word,  he  might  have  sent  him  to  the 
right  about  ? 

The  man  had  taken  to  him,  as  the  saying  goes.  Denis 
had  taken  to  the  man.  There  were  possibilities  behind 
so  fine  an  augury,  far-reaching,  tremendous  possibilities, 
and  Denis  was  of  the  nation  which  springs  lightly  in 
pursuit. 


ONE  IN  A  CROWD  79 

Lucy  did  not  understand  what  had  happened,  for  Denis 
refused  to  enlighten  her — partly  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
her  smile  when  he  was  in  a  position  to  announce  his 
success,  partly  for  fear  he  might  be  compelled  to  dash  her 
hopes.  To  shatter  his  own  was  sufficiently  terrible  ;  but 
to  shatter  Lucy's  was  the  last  pain  a  man  would  willingly 
endure. 

Lucy  sang  that  night  as  she  had  not  sung  for  weeks. 
Something  of  Den's  exhilaration,  subdued  as  he  supposed 
it  was,  came  into  the  girl's  attitude,  into  her  voice,  into 
the  beautiful  trust  she  gave  so  fully.  Den  was  so  strong, 
so  capable,  something  would  happen  to  help  him  .  .  . 
something  had  happened.  She  was  sure  of  it.  Victory 
rang  in  her  soft  contralto  as  she  gave  him  the  songs  he 
loved. 

He  sat  beside  her  turning  the  leaves.  Kisses  were  her 
payment.  She  asked  no  more.  He  had  nothing  else  to  give. 

She  took  them  with  a  delight  which  seemed  to  acknow- 
ledge the  coming  of  ease  ;  yet  she  knew  that  between 
them  and  difficulty  stood  but  a  small  sum.  Less  than 
five  pounds.  Sufficient  provocation  here  to  reduce  some 
women  to  tears,  others  to  scorn  ;  sufficient  to  send  man  or 
woman  to  the  seclusion  of  a  room,  there  to  end  matters 
for  all  time. 

And  Lucy  leaned  towards  her  husband  singing.  She 
smiled  in  his  face,  her  fingers  running  bravely  over  the 
keys — 

Chatter  nonsense,  chatter  sense, 
Kiss  my  eyes  and  do  not  fence, 

Take  my  hand,  please, 

Pull  me  near,  Tease  .  .  . 
I  will  not  plague  a  man  so  dense. 

Whisper  boldly,  whisper  why 
You  believe  that  love  can  die, 

Sit  down  here,  please, 

From  your  own,  Tease, 
You  can  scarcely  wish  to  fly  ? 

Chaff  me  gently,  arms  entwined, 
Let  me  see  how  much  you  mind  ; 

Turn  the  lights  down 

Draw  my  face  down  .  .  . 
I  am  yours,  and  love  is  blind. 

Five  pounds  in  the  world  and  that  song  from  her  heart ! 
She  was  a  child,  even  as  he  was.  A  pair  of  them,  God 
knows,  facing  the  valley  of  shadows  without  fear. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THREE    LETTERS 

HARGREAVES  allowed  no  grass  to  grow  under  his  feet  in 
this  matter,  but  wrote  as  he  had  promised,  in  this  strain : 

"  I  received  your  wire  and  have  noted  contents.  I 
do  not  consider  it  expedient  to  press  for  payment  against 
Sharum,  Fit  &  Co.,  because  it  seems  likely  that 
such  action  on  your  part  would  compel  the  firm  to 
suspend  payment  immediately — when,  I  need  scarcely 
point  out,  your  claim  would  not  rank  as  a  first  charge 
on  the  assets.  If  Messrs.  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co.  are  in 
a  position  to  satisfy  the  creditors  of  the  S.S.  Sphinx, 
you  would  no  doubt  rank  pro  rata  with  other  share- 
holders in  any  further  payments  which  may  be  made  ; 
but  as  the  S.S.  Sphinx  was  fully  mortgaged,  I  do  not 
think  it  likely  that  the  shareholders  will  be  able  to 
recover.  I  should  perhaps  explain  that  having  taken 
shares  in  the  S.S.  Sphinx  Co.,  Ltd.,  you  are  able 
only  to  claim  against  that  concern.  Any  proceed- 
ings you  may  feel  constrained  to  take  must  be  directed 
against  Messrs.  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co.  for  their  action 
in  selling  to  you  a  share  in  a  concern  which  was  fully 
mortgaged  at  the  time,  without,  I  presume,  drawing 
your  attention  to  the  fact  that  it  was  so  mortgaged. 
You  might,  of  course,  combine  with  other  shareholders 
in  this  matter ;  but  in  my  opinion,  and  I  give  it  here 
for  what  it  is  worth,  I  think  that  unless  your  object  be 
the  exposure  of  Messrs.  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co.  pro  bono 
publico,  you  will  be  well  advised  to  risk  no  further 
expenditure." 

With  all  his  limitations  O'Hagan  had  no  difficulty  in 
comprehending  this.  The  letter  was  couched  in  liar- 
greaves'  most  impressive  style.  There  was  no  doubt  at 
all  as  to  his  meaning.  All  that  talk  of  mortgages  and 
creditors  and  pro  rata  payments  when  boiled  down  meant 
simply  that  O'Hagan  had  put  his  money  "  on  a  wrong 


THREE   LETTERS  81 

'tin."  In  other  words,  the  whole  thing  was  a  swindle.  A 
swindle,  by  Jove  !  of  the  kind  no  white  man  would  attempt. 
It  came,  in  effect,  to  this — in  addition  to  the  loss  of  his  ship 
and  his  certificate,  O'Hagan  stood  to  lose  both  his  capital 
and  the  interest  which  was  due  upon  it.  Interest  which  was 
required — Lord  !  how  desperately  at  this  moment. 

Lucy  was  not  downstairs.  He  dared  not  show  her  that 
letter  when  she  came ;  he  dared  not  allude  to  it.  He 
had  the  doctor's  word  that  she  must  not  be  allowed  to 
think  ;  but  if  she  knew  this,  then  how  would  it  be  possible 
to  maintain  sunniness  ?  With  the  letter  locked  carefully 
in  his  desk  Denis  O'Hagan  sat  down  to  consider  his  reply. 

"  I  have  no  money  to  spend,"  he  wrote.  "  If  other 
shareholders  make  a  fuss  let  me  know  and  I  will  try  to 
join  in — but  get  me  my  interest  if  it  is  possible  to  do  so 
in  any  way.  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  after  my 
heavy  expense  it  is  most  urgently  required." 

And  having  posted  this  he  marched  with  a  set  face  to 
plan  his  day.  But  a  question  throbbed  which  he  could 
not  still,  a  question  which  touched  on  the  actual  position, 
long  hidden  but  now  imperative.  "  What  was  to  be 
done  ?  They  had  less  than  five  pounds  between  them  and 
nothing  coming  in.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  " 

It  was  impossible  to  dull  the  dread  which  accompanied 
that  question.  It  was  a  new  sensation — one  born  partly 
of  fear,  partly  of  inexperience.  In  a  few  days  the  rent 
must  be  paid.  In  his  desk  a  notice  from  the  Water  Com- 
pany threatening  to  cut  off  the  supply  reminded  him  that 
if  he  paid  they  would  be  penniless.  What  would  be  done 
if  he  failed  to  comply  with  demands  such  as  these  ?  Would 
they  be  turned  out  ?  Would  they  be  sold  up  ?  How 
far  was  it  possible  for  landlords  and  water  companies  and 
rate  collectors  to  go  ?  Surely  they  would  not  move  at 
such  a  time  as  that  he  faced  ! 

He  walked  in  greater  distress  than  had  been  his  lot 
hitherto.  Action,  movement,  the  pursuit  of  his  calling 
would  have  saved  him.  But  this  was  the  one  thing 
debarred  by  the  attitude  of  authority.  If  he  had  been 
without  home  ties  he  would  have  shipped  away  "  before 
the  stick  "  as  the  phrase  goes,  and  put  in  the  interregnum 
in  any  capacity  rather  than  kick  heels  in  miserable  in- 
eptitude on  shore.  The  broom  and  the  crossing  which  men 

B.P.  Q 


82  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

adumbrate  when  afloat  as  a  means  of  escape  from  nearly 
intolerable  conditions  are  not  easily  found  by  those  who 
seek.  There  are  other  people  in  the  world.  Most  of  the 
crossing  places  are  filled  by  attendant  sweepers.  Those 
left  for  sailor  applicants  are  of  the  dregs — passages 
leading  to  no-man's  land ;  passages  on  the  way  to 
oblivion. 

Oh  !  it  was  all  intensely  complicated  and  wickedly 
designed  to  scotch  those  who  are  of  the  nation's  best — 
men  of  the  army  and  navy  ;  men  of  the  mercantile  marine. 
Without  these  men  the  nation  could  not  exist.  It  would 
never  have  come  to  be  a  nation — but  the  officer  in  either 
force  who  has  been  compelled  to  order  his  men  to  fire  on 
rioters  is  hauled  before  a  bench  of  magistrates  to  defend 
himself  ;  and  the  sailor  who  has  lost  his  ship  is  laid  by  the 
heels  on  the  judgment  of  the  Great  Unpaid  for  "  faults  " 
they  do  not  pretend  to  comprehend. 

O'Hagan  came  back  after  a  while,  his  mind  again  busy 
with  the  inequalities  of  reward  and  of  punishment.  For 
weeks  this  had  remained  quiescent.  He  was  prepared, 
seeing  he  was  set  desperately  to  husband  his  resources, 
to  acquiesce  in  what  reason  told  him  was  unfair.  But 
now  his  resources  were  like  to  break  in  spite  of  his  caution, 
the  fact  that  he  had  been  sentenced  unjustly  and  turned 
loose  to  browse  or  starve  returned  with  increasing  force. 
He  damned  the  moment  he  had  walked  into  the  office 
of  that  tribe  of  sharks  known  to  him  as  Sharum,  Fit 
&  Co.,  Ltd.  He  damned  the  innocence  with  which  he 
had  succumbed  to  their  flattering  and  echinated  phrases. 
He  damned  the  law  which  permits  overloading  and  deck 
loading ;  the  flabby-faced  tribe  who  administer  the  law, 
if  it  be  a  law.  He  damned  the  "  Plaster  Saint  "  who  from 
his  place  on  high  nods  acquiescence  and  approval,  while 
dealing  out  sentences  to  the  men  who  are  compelled 
to  work  these  ships — sentences  which  in  effect  mean 
starvation. 

All  the  blows  a  man  has  received  sting  and  tingle  afresh 
when  he  is  hit  covertly  from  behind  the  ambush  of  the  law. 
Because  O'Hagan  lacked  the  means  to  prosecute  his  cause 
apparently  he  must  go  under.  Aye  !  but  would  he  ?  A 
picture  of  him  marching  down  the  tier  of  palaces  with  their 
tin-pot  decorations  and  grandiose  names  would  give  the 
lie  to  that.  A  suggestion — yes.  But  definitely — no. 
O'Hagan  was  too  mercurial  to  be  easily  led  to  the  slaughter 


THREE  LETTERS  83 

chamber,  too  vigorous  to  succumb  before  this  facer,  too 
tenacious,  too  much  in  love  with  that  sweet  girl  who 
practically  fettered  him  to  know  that  he  was  fettered,  to 
consider  it,  to  hint  at  it.  And  there  you  have  the  heart 
of  his  character,  the  soul  of  him — the  undying  force 
which  guided  and  helped  him  at  the  very  moment  that  it 
held  him  chained. 

So  he  came  down  the  slope  beside  the  palaces  and 
entered  his  own  tiled  pathway  to  his  own  front  door 
questioning  whether  Lucy  were  yet  awake.  The  sight  of 
the  open  window  of  her  room  had  driven  anathema  from 
his  brain.  He  was  calm  in  spite  of -the  stress  he  endured, 
ready  to  greet  his  girl  with  a  cheery  word,  ready  to  fight 
for  her  if  only — and  this  puzzled  him — he  could  see  exactly 
where  to  begin.  No  other  soul  in  the  world,  apparently, 
trusted  him  or  cared  to  help  him,  only  Lucy.  How  then 
should  it  be  possible  to  consider  defeat  ?  He  pushed  it 
from  him  with  both  hands  as  he  entered  his  house. 

The  small  maid  who  had  given  notice  in  orthodox  terms 
stood  in  the  passage  to  greet  him  as  he  closed  the  door. 

"  Oh,  if  you  please,  sir,"  she  said,  "  Mrs.  Sykes,  the 
lady  at  Portland  Lodge,  sent  in  some  letters."  She  handed 
them  with  the  phrase,  "  They  were  took  there  by  mistake 
and  they  are  very  sorry  they  weren't  sent  in  last  night — 
but  everyone  seemed  in  bed." 

Almost  without  heeding  this  explanation  Denis  took 
the  letters  and  re-entered  the  dining-room.  The  first  he 
opened  had  on  the  envelope  in  small  black  type  : 

"  BRAZER,  FURLEY  &  HAMMOND, 
SOLICITORS." 

and  he  thanked  God  Lucy  was  still  in  her  room.  He 
unfolded  with  a  thrill  of  apprehension.  So  much  depended 
upon  it — so  much. 

And  this  is  what  he  read — 

"  I  am  sorry  to  be  compelled  to  disappoint  you  ;  but 
as  I  informed  you  on  Tuesday,  my  father  makes  one 
condition  with  which,  I  understand,  you  are  unable  to 
comply.  French  he  must  have,  French  and  German  if 
possible,  as  owing  to  his  dependence  now  on  whoever 
accompanies  him,  it  is  essential  that  one  language  in 
addition  to  English  is  a  qualification. 

"  I  may  add,  if  you  will  allow  me,  that  if  I  personally 

a  2 


84  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

required  help  of  the  kind  stated,  I  should  choose  you. 
That  may  be  cold  comfort  ;  yet,  in  spite  of  it,  if  you 
think  I  may  be  able  to  help  you  to  obtain  an  appoint- 
ment in  some  other  direction,  I  will  gladly  do  what  I 
can  for  the  sake  of  Winchester,  if  you  will  call." 

This  was  signed  by  Stephen  Hammond,  and  O'Hugan 
lingered  over  the  name  seeking  to  recall  it.  But  at  the 
moment  it  escaped  and  he  turned  with  a  sigh  to  the  second 
letter.  This  said  in  the  ungrammatical  English  of  one 
more  accustomed  to  use  the  hammer  than  the  pen — 

"  SIR, — A  man  told  me  you  was  on  the  look-out  fer  a 
job  and  so  i  take  the  leberty  of  writin'  to  say  as  i  know 
of  one.  And  if  you  feel  like  takin'  it  on  an'  pying  a  far 
cormision  say  £10  fer  each  hundred  you  get  Well  wire 
me  to  15,  Standish  Street  E.  and  i  will  Meet  you  an' 
arrange  fer  the  introduction. 

"  Yours  trulie, 

"  BILL  THOMAS, 

"  Enginer  Fiter. 

"  P.S. — Say  where  wen  you  wire." 

Denis  had  read  this  strange  epistle  twice  and  was 
frowningly  considering  what  he  should  do  when  the  door 
opened  and  Lucy,  clad  in  a  loose-fitting,  rose-coloured 
trousseau  gown,  came  into  the  room. 

"  Letters  ?  "  she  smiled  as  he  rose  and  shuffled  with  the 
envelope  containing  Stephen  Hammond's  tantalising 
epistle. 

"  One,"  he  said,  "  which  I  can  make  neither  top  nor 
tail  of.  Come  and  dekko  hai,  Mem-sahib,  and  tell  me 
what  to  do." 

He  put  his  arm  about  her,  worries  forgotten,  her 
beautiful  eyes  the  lodestar  which  spoke  of  hope,  even  now 
when  hope  had  seemed  to  be  dead. 

"  Mem-sahib  has  silly  head  this  morning,"  she  joked, 
her  cheek  against  his  shoulder ;  "  read  it  to  her." 

"  Bad  ?  "  he  questioned,  facing  her,  the  letter  pushed 
aside. 

"  Nothing  a  cup  of  tea  will  not  cure,  oh  dearest.  Read 
it,  please." 

He  crossed  and  rang  for  breakfast,  took  her  to  a  chair 
and,  sitting  on  the  arm  of  it,  read  what  was  said. 

Lucy  looked  up  as  he  concluded  and  asked  at  once — 


THREE  LETTERS  85 

"  What  will  you  do,  Den  ?  " 

"  Think  it's  worth  while  risking  five  bob  on  it  ?  "  he 
asked. 

Her  eyes  rather  negatived  this,  but  she  said — 

"  I  wonder  where  Standish  Street  is — do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Poplar  way,  I  guess." 

"  Where  you  took  me  when  you  joined  the  Sphinx, 
Den,  down  by  East  India  Dock  Road  ?  " 

"  I  expect  so — very  likely  one  of  the  little  streets  run- 
ning down  to  the  docks." 

"  Um  !  "  said  Lucy  with  a  frown  growing ;  "it's  not  quite 
the  sort  of  place  I  should  expect  to  find  a  job  for  my 
husband  in.  Oh !  I  can't  think.  My  head's  stupid 
to-day  .  .  .  toss  for  it." 

"  'When  in  doubt  play  trumps,'"  Denis  quoted  and  sought 
a  coin.  "  If  I  were  flush  I  shouldn't  hesitate.  .  .  ." 

"  If  you  were  flush,  oh  dearest,  I  should  not  let  you  go. 
Go  on.  Spin  for  it." 

"  Right.     Heads  I  go,  tails  I  don't  go.     Savvy  ?  " 

She  nodded  and  he  tossed  the  coin.  It  fell  at  her  feet, 
a  head  of  His  Majesty  King  Edward  by  the  grace  of  God 
Rex  et  Imperator,  and  as  Denis  stooped  to  recover  it  he 
said — 

"  Well — that's  settled  anyway.  I  shall  wire  before  I 
go  to  town.  Come  and  have  that  cup  of  tea,  dear  dearest, 
and  cure  your  poor  head." 

And  fifteen  minutes  later  he  kissed  her  and  started  to 
catch  the  9.45  train,  the  train  which  a  merciful  railway 
company  has  decreed  shall  be  cheap  each  day  from 
River  ton. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    "  BILLET  " 

THE  moan  of  wind  sweeping  past  the  house  compelled 
Lucy  to  shiver  as  she  lay  waiting  for  Den's  return.  It  had 
the  eerie  quality  of  a  personal  assault.  It  never  died. 
It  was  persistent,  increasing,  malignant.  It  kept  up  a 
burr  of  horrid  comment  which  had  the  effect  of  spite.  It 
seemed  to  glory  in  the  attitude  Lucy  presented  to  the 
forces  which  whelmed  her,  together  with  that  strong  man 
who  was  her  husband.  They  were  bent — both  of  them. 
The  wind  boomed  in  the  chimney  reiterating  this  fact.  It 
shook  the  windows  in  mere  devilment.  It  seemed  to  insist 
that  it  could  enter,  but  chose  the  more  fascinating  pastime 
of  scare. 

And  Lucy  lay  still  listening  to  it,  waiting,  waiting  as  only 
those  do  who  understand  the  wind's  power.  Yet  she  did 
not  lack  courage.  The  fact  that  she  lay  still  in  that  buzz- 
ing room  may  be  taken  as  a  signal  to  her  lack  of  fear. 

There  was  a  day  when  she  had  raced  her  pony  full  pace 
to  try  to  ride  under  the  rainbow,  in  order  that  she  might 
come  out  on  the  other  side  a  boy  ;  but  that  was  far  off 
now,  far  as  the  hill  country  which  had  seen  the  ride.  Now, 
if  she  had  her  way,  she  would  have  ridden  into  the  valley 
of  shadows,  if  by  enduring  its  torture  she  might  have 
emerged  on  the  farther  hillside,  well  and  able  to  take  her 
part  in  the  fight,  her  child  in  her  arms.  But  the  valley 
remained  to  confront  her,  even  as  the  wind  which  sought 
to  terrify  her.  All  day  it  had  boomed.  Her  head  ached 
with  its  assault. 

She  saw  difficulty  before  them  and  recognised  the 
handicap  which  her  illness  must  bring.  She  saw  Den 
shouldering  his  end  of  the  burden,  but  looking  round  found 
no  one  at  the  other.  Her  place  was  empty.  Den  could 
not  carry  the  whole  burden  without  coming  to  the  centre 
of  it — and  that  made  it  too  heavy  for  him  to  bear.  That 
thought  made  her  more  fearful  than  the  wind. 

She  considered  it  from  every  coign.  A  strange  fluttering 
assailed  her.  She  seemed  to  struggle  for  breath  •  yet  she 


THE   "BILLET"  87 

knew  she  had  not  moved.  Then  mercifully,  from  afar  off 
came  the  shriek  of  an  engine,  a  hiss  of  steam  borne  gustily 
to  the  hillside,  and  she  recognised  that  the  train  which  was 
to  bring  Denis  back  from  town  had  started  once  more  on 
its  way. 

Presently  Denis  would  be  here.  Presently  she  would 
be  able  to  shake  off  this  lethargy  which  held  her. 
Presently  he  would  come  in,  strong  in  his  manhood,  and 
take  her  in  his  arms  so  that  she  might  regain  courage. 

A  clock  whirred  out  ten  silver  strokes.  Someone  called 
"  Coo-ee  !  "  from  the  road,  and  there  followed  firm  foot- 
steps running  on  the  tiles,  yet  Lucy  did  not  stir. 

"  Where  away,  oh  Mem-sahib  ?  "  Denis  cried  as  he 
closed  and  locked  the  door. 

"  Here,  dear  dearest  ...  in  the  drawing-room  !  " 
Lucy  trilled  from  behind  lath  and  plaster  walls,  and  with 
a  shock  he  recognised  that  for  some  reason,  in  spite  of  her 
playful  rejoinder,  she  was  not  coming  to  greet  him  as  was 
her  custom. 

He  looked  bronzed  and  hearty  as  he  entered  ;  his  eyes 
sparkled,  his  face  was  whipped  red  by  contact  with  that 
breeze  which  boomed  so  menacingly  in  Lucy's  ears.  He 
looked  strong.  She  looked  fragile  —  but  her  eyes 
brightened  as  she  stretched  out  hands  to  greet  him.  He 
crossed  to  her  side  and  sat  down  in  the  space  she  prepared 
for  him.  Then  he  tucked  one  arm  about  her  and  leaned 
to  kiss. 

"  Not  very  fit,  dearest  ?  "  he  questioned,  looking  into 
her  eyes,  a  scare  thrilling  him. 

She  reached  up  and  pulled  him  near  enough  to  make  him 
understand. 

"  Dear  dearest  ...  I  fink  you'll  have  to  carry  me 
upstairs  to-night,"  she  whispered. 

He  half  disengaged  himself,  more  frightened  than  before. 

"  Now  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No — no.  Presently  ...  I  had  to — to  call  the  doctor 
this  afternoon  and  he  told  me  to  go  to  bed  at  once  .  .  . 
and  I  didn't — because  I  wanted  you  to  come  first  .  .  . 
and  then  I  felt  better  and  so  I  stayed  to  see  you — and 
now  I  think  I  couldn't  manage  all  by  myself.  Isn't  it 
stupid  .  .  .  you  aren't  cross,  are  you,  Den  ?  " 

"  Cross  !  "  He  leaned  over  her,  his  fingers  in  her 
luxuriant  hair.  "  Why — did  I  seem  impatient  or  any- 
thing, my  Mem-sahib  ?  " 


88  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

She  captured  his  hand  and  drew  it  to  her  lips. 

"  No,  no,  no.  You  are  always  kind  and  gentle  and 
loving  "• — she  choked  over  the  word — "  but  I'm  such  a 
little  fool.  I — I  can't  help  you  .  .  .  and  you  are  so 
bothered  .  .  .  and  I  do  want  to  be  of  some  use.  .  .  ." 

"  You  are  my  wife,  dear  heart,"  he  whispered,  trembling. 
"  You  are  braver  than  I.  ...  You  help  me  every  minute 
of  the  day." 

"  Sure  ?  "  she  faltered,  her  eyes  lifted  to  his,  her  face 
flushed. 

He  sought  her  lips  and  gave  the  assurance  she  desired. 
Her  arms  went  up  about  his  neck  and  held  him.  The 
wind  moaned  in  the  chimney.  It  wrestled  with  the  shrubs 
just  outside  their  window  and  passed  on  singing,  trium- 
phant— the  force  which  had  helped  to  bring  this  man  low 
and  now  would  hold  him  chained. 

With  a  sigh  Lucy  released  him  and,  looking  steadfastly 
into  his  eyes,  whispered — "  I  wish  sometimes  babies  had 
never  been  invented,  Den  .  .  .  don't  you  ?  " 

"  No,  dearest,"  he  lied  bravely,  holding  her  close. 

"  Sure  ?  " 

"  Quite,  quite  sure." 

"  Then  that's  all  right  .  .  .  but  I  did  think  they  rather 
make  me  no  use,  you  know  .  .  .  and,  and  I  can't  afford 
to  be  no  use  now,  Den.  I've  got  to  be  a  real  help  to  you 
.  .  .  for  better  or  for  worse,  it  said — and,  and  this  is  a  bit 
of  the  '  worse  '  part  come  when  you  weren't  ready.  .  .  . 
Oh  !  dear  dearest,  I  do  wish  it  was  all  over  and  I  could  let 
you  go  or  come  with  you  if  the  stupid  ship  people  would 
let  me.  I  would  if  I  could,  Den  .  .  .  Oh  !  I  would,  I 
would  .  .  .  but  I  ...  I'm  frightened  to  let  you  go  now, 
if  that  is  what  you've  come  to  tell  me  ?  It  is  that — 
isn't  it  ...  it  is  ...  it  is.  ..  ." 

He  smiled,  facing  her,  playing  still  with  her  beautiful 
hair,  while  the  wind  rolled  booming  without,  the  victor 
crooning  his  thanks,  laughing  about  the  eaves  and 
buttresses,  sobbing,  bubbling  and  in  triumph. 

"  I  could  take  it,"  he  said,  "  if  I  like  ...  but  I  refused." 

She  snuggled  closer  in  his  arms,  asking  why. 

"  I  should  have  had  to  sail  in  about  a  fortnight,  oh 
dearest  .  .  .  and  I  couldn't  do  that,  could  I  ?  " 

For  a  moment  Lucy  lay  very  still,  then  with  a  sudden 
thrill  of  fear  she  cried  out — "  Not  unless  you  could  take  me 
with  you,  Den.  Wouldn't  they  let  you  ?  .  .  .  Couldn't 


THE   "BILLET"  89 

you  persuade  them  ?  I  shouldn't  mind  if  you  were  with 
me,  you  know.  We  should  manage  somehow — but  not 
if  you  had  to  leave  me  at  home." 

"  I  couldn't  do  that,"  he  answered  at  once.  "  She's  a 
wee  bit  of  a  thing  with  no  room  for  passengers,  scarcely 
enough  for  the  half  dozen  or  so  who  will  have  to  take  her 
out." 

"  So  small  as  that !  "  She  had  grown  suddenly  calm  with 
his  explanation.  She  seemed  puzzled  and  added  : 

'  Den,  tell  me  all  about  it.     Is  she  a  ship  ?  " 

'  A  tug-boat,  dearest." 

'  A  tug-boat,  Den  ?  " 

'  A  very  small  one  .  .  .  about  five  tons.  .  .  ." 

'  Five  tons  !     How  big  was  the  Sphinx  ?  " 

'  About  three  thousand,  dearest." 

'  And  she  was  a  dot  to  the  Saladin  .  .  .  Oh  !  I  am  so 
glad  you  decided  not  to  take  her.  Where  were  you  to  go  ? 
What  could  they  do  with  her  at  sea  ?  " 

"  I  was  to  take  her  to  South  America — Valparaiso  as  a 
matter  of  fact — and  I  was  to  get  two  hundred  pounds  for 
the  job.  .  .  ." 

"  Two  hundred  !     Oh,  Den — and  you  had  to  refuse." 

"  Yes.  But  it  wouldn't  have  been  all  beer  and 
skittles." 

Lucy  considered  this,  then  asked — 

"  Why  were  they  going  to  pay  such  a  lot  ...  it  is  a 
lot,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Well — you  see,  she's  rather  small  and  ...  it  might 
take  some  time  to  get  her  out.  There's  a  risk,  too,  that 

doesn't  come  in  ordinary  voyages " 

"  Because  she  is  so  small  ?  " 

"  Mainly  that — but  also  because  she  is  not  quite  fitted 
for  ocean  traffic.  She's  for  the  docks  or  harbour  work, 
you  see — and  as  she  has  been  built  here,  they  have  to  get 
her  out.  .  .  ." 

'  And  they  wanted  you  to  take  her  ?  " 

'  They  offered  me  the  billet." 

*  Had  they  offered  it  to  anyone  else,  Den  ?  " 

'  I  expect  so — very  likely." 

'  I  am  sure  of  it,"  Lucy  commented. 
He  laughed  in  her  face. 

"  It  would  be  no  use  trying  to  bamboozle  you,  Mem- 
sahib.  You  know  too  much.  Of  course,  it  isn't  a  job  for 
a  man  with — with  anyone  dependent  upon  him.  They 


90  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

didn't  know  I  was  married,  you  see.  It  is  one  of  the  risks 
that  come  in  the  way  of  poor  devils  on  their  beam  ends. 
I  am  supposed  to  be  more  or  less  desperate  and  so  I  got 
the  offer " 

"  But  how  could  you  go — you  are  still  suspended, 
Den  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  get  over  little  difficulties  of  that  sort — if  they 
take  to  the  man.  She  will  hoist  the  Chilean  flag  and  her 
skipper  will  sign  Chilean  articles.  A  ship  can  go  to  sea 
one  way  or  another  pretty  much  as  her  owners  choose  to 
send  her.  And  this  sort  of  craft  is  just  dodged  along  from 
port  to  port,  and  when  it  blows  she  must  get  in  somewhere. 
I  would  have  taken  it  like  a  shot,"  he  added,  with  a  touch 
of  the  fight  that  was  in  him,  "  if  there  had  been  no  Mem- 
sahib  to  worry  herself  ill  over  it." 

"  But  would  it  have  been  safe,  dearest  ?  "  she  whispered, 
clinging  to  him,  her  inability  to  help  him  again  stifling  her. 

"  It  would  have  been  a  fight,"  he  said  at  once.  "  And 
this  will  be  a  fight,  too,  little  woman  .  .  .  but  we'll  win 
out  here,  and  Jimmy  Barlow  will  do  his  best  with  the 
tug- boat." 

"  Jimmy  Barlow  !  " 

"  Yes — he  jumped  at  it,  poor  beggar  !  " 

"  Why — is  he  very  stony  ?  " 

"  He  has  been  working  in  the  docks,  oh  dearest — 
humping  cases  at  twenty-eight  shillings  a  week,  for  I 
don't  know  how  long.  Then  it  appeared  someone  objected 
to  him,  because  he  wasn't  a  trade  unionist.  And  the 
whole  gang  threatened  to  strike  if  they  didn't  take  him  off, 
so  Barlow  got  a  week's  pay  in  lieu  of  notice  and  had  to 
quit.  Of  course  he  was  pretty  stony  and  he  was  no  end 
thankful  to  me  for  giving  him  the  chance  to  apply." 

Then  rather  suddenly  a  gust  of  wind  took  hold  of  the 
window  and  rattled  it  so  fiercely  that  Lucy  clung  to  Den's 
arm  trembling. 

"  Take  me  up,  dear  dearest,"  she  whispered.  "  It's 
that  awful  gale  when  you  were  in  the  Sphinx  that  makes 
me  frightened.  I  never  minded  before  .  .  .  perhaps 
presently  I  won't  mind  it  again  ,  .  .  but  it  has  been — 
doing — its  best  to  break — me  down — all  day,  Den  .  .  . 
and  I  can't  bear  it.  I  can't  ...  I  can't !  " 

He  gathered  her  in  his  arms  and  stood  swaying  much  as 
a  mother  does  her  child,  and  his  strength  calmed  her.  She 
put  out  one  arm  and  twined  his  neck. 


THE   "  BILLET  "  91 

"  I  am  such  a  little  fool !  "  she  whispered,  her  face 
tucked  close  to  his  shoulder. 

"  Shure  !  "  he  answered,  bending  to  reach  her  lips. 
"  You  aren't  heavy  enough  for  a  fool.  By  the  weight  I 
should  judge  ye  for  a  spirit — a  spirit,  bedad  !  so  fine  and 
trim,  that  naught  av  fear  can  enter  in." 

"  Den,  I  was  afraid.     I  was — I  was.  .  .  ." 

"  But  now  you're  laughin',"  he  answered,  refusing  to  be 
serious. 

"  That's  because  you  are  with  me,  dear  dearest.  Take 
me  upstairs.  I  was  afraid  you  would  have  to  go  and 
leave  me  .  .  .  and  I  couldn't  bear  it.  ...  So  I  was  a 
little  fool,  you  see.  And  I'm  awfully  sorry  that  Jimmy 
Barlow  will  have  to  take  it.  It  isn't  fit.  Fancy  anyone 
daring  to  offer  you  a  ship  that  can  only  carry  five  tons  ! 

"  Yes,  a  bit  of  a  drop,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  laughed,  and  carried 
her  upstairs. 


CHAPTER  IX 

AT   THE   GANGWAY 

MARCH  nearing  its  end.  A  grey  day  screening  the  grey 
Thames,  the  farther  Kentish  hills  diaphanous  in  their 
misty  trappings. 

Thin  rain  falling,  air  nearly  stagnant,  the  docks  a  blur 
of  smoke  and  steam  and  slow-driving  moisture.  On 
every  hand  the  clang  and  jar  of  winches,  the  hiss  of 
hydraulic  cranes,  the  rattle  of  trains  moving  up  the  dock 
railway,  the  crash  of  buffers,  and  occasionally  the  boom  of 
a  horn  far  down  where  the  river  rolled  sluggishly  sea- 
ward. 

O'Hagan  came  from  the  dock-side  where  one  of  the 
eastern  mailships  lay  preparing  to  face  a  new  voyage. 
For  an  hour  he  had  waited  about  the  sheds  at  the  foot  of 
her  gangway  watching  the  men  who  wheeled  trucks  and 
tilted  cases  which  were  caught  and  swung  inboard  by 
a  crane  which  suffered  as  with  asthma.  Sometimes  he 
stared  at  the  grey  outlook,  sometimes  stamped  a  few  paces 
up  and  down  before  the  gangway  ;  but  generally  he  kept 
out  of  sight  of  those  men  up  there  on  the  mailship's  deck, 
who  might  perhaps  have  recognised  him. 

O'Hagan  had  been  marching  London  streets  and  London 
docks  for  some  weeks,  and  he  was  beginning  to  compre- 
hend his  position.  He  had  made  no  attempt  to  see 
Captain  Worsdale,  although  once,  in  a  rare  burst  of 
optimism,  he  had  gone  so  far  as  the  company's  office 
in  Leadenhall  Street,  and  had  retired  with  equal  rapidity. 
The  commissionaire  on  duty  had  recognised  him.  That 
was  all. 

But  now,  driven  by  the  persistent  ill-luck,  as  he  termed 
it,  which  had  attended  his  various  attempts  to  find  employ- 
ment elsewhere,  driven  indeed  by  a  sort  of  desperation 
which  was  becoming,  in  a  sense,  his  metier,  he  had  decided 
to  beard  the  great  little  man  at  the  docks. 

He  would  feel  freer  there,  he  argued.  Those  grim  office 
fronts  always  threw  him  out  of  gear.  They  were  like 


AT  THE   GANGWAY  93 

Jake  Hall,  and  the  stuffy  court  house  which  had  seen  his 
trial.  They  smelled,  too,  of  soft  soap  and  polish.  There 
were  too  many  barriers  and  screens,  and  the  counters 
were  too  wide  for  sympathetic  speech.  That  commis- 
sionaire fellow  had  a  way  with  him,  too,  that  was  exas- 
perating. Rather  familiarly  pointing  to  the  fact  that  he 
remembered  O'Hagan  as  an  officer  who  came  up  in 
charge  of  the  specie — not  so  long  ago — and  fancied 
himself  a  bit  of  a  swell. 

Perhaps  these  notions  scarcely  redounded  to  O'Hagan's 
credit.  They  seem  to  suggest  a  pride  which  was  unwar- 
ranted ;  but  they  may  also  suggest  that  feeling  which  is 
much  more  difficult  to  define,  which  arises  when  a  man 
knows  that  he  has  been  knocked  down  for  a  fault  which  was 
no  fault  in  the  eyes  of  his  compeers.  And  now  that  he  had 
come  to  the  docks,  it  seemed  there  were  others  whom  he 
would  rather  not  face. 

A  stumbling-block,  this  question  of  acquaintanceship  for 
men  on  the  down  grade  ;  one  which  O'Hagan  had  not 
thought  out.  For  that  reason  he  marched  the  dock-side 
and  stared  at  the  grey  drizzle  which  searched  the  quality 
of  that  coat  he  wore. 

A  train  ran  clanking  to  a  halt  at  the  station,  and 
presently  a  small  procession  of  men  came  over  the  bridge- 
way  which  spanned  the  head  of  the  dock,  and  moved  down 
the  slopes  to  reach  the  shipping.  Five  or  six  passed 
O'Hagan  and  climbed  the  mailship's  gangway ;  but  he 
still  waited,  eyeing  the  bridge. 

When  it  seemed  certain  that  no  other  passengers  had 
arrived  by  this  train,  O'Hagan  opened  his  coat  and  shook 
the  moisture  from  it.  He  appeared  undecided.  He 
glanced  at  his  watch,  again  buttoned  up,  turning  the 
collar  high,  and  with  a  sudden  twist  moved  off  towards 
the  canteen  which  stood  upon  the  bridgeway. 

It  was  cold,  raw,  and  the  steaming  rain  was  of  a  quality 
which  pierces  any  coat  not  waterproofed. 

O'Hagan  entered  the  canteen,  approached  the  bar  and 
said  in  his  deep  voice — "  I'll  trouble  you  for  a  drop  of 
Irish  hot — and  a  biscuit  and  cheese." 

A  goddess  of  the  counter  glanced  up  at  him  as  she  pre- 
pared the  drink  and  said — "  You  are  wet.  Miserable 
outside,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Miserable  inside,  too,  at  present,"  O'Hagan  replied. 
He  patted  his  coat  and  a  shower  fell  on  the  floor. 


94  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  If  you  go  on  like  that,"  said  the  goddess  tartly, 
"  we'll  have  to  mop  the  place  up  when  you're  gone." 

O'Hagan  was  too  much  occupied  to  take  heed.  The 
goddess  pushed  a  tumbler  across  the  counter,  brought 
biscuits,  cheese  and  plate  and  presented  them  without 
further  talk.  She  seemed  for  a  moment  not  to  see  the 
shilling  O'Hagan  tendered ;  she  was  glancing  up  at  him 
as  though  meditating  speech ;  then  his  eyes  caught  hers 
and  in  a  great  hurry  she  accepted  the  coin.  She  pushed 
four  coppers  across  the  counter,  passed  from  his  presence 
and  sat  down  in  a  little  room  with  other  goddesses. 

"  It's  Cap'n  O'Hagan,"  she  confided  to  a  friend,  who 
occupied  a  chair  beside  her,  and  stared  at  the  crochet  she 
held.  "  I  didn't  think  it  would  run  to  Irish  hot  to- 
day. He's  been  out  of  a  job  nearly  six  months  they 
say." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  her  friend  ;  but  she  continued  busily  to 
make  holes  in  white  cotton. 

"  He  was  in  the  papers  a  lot  at  the  time — remember  ? 
I  don't  think  he  improves,  do  you  ?  " 

The  friend  peered  for  one  moment  through  the  small 
door  and  returned  to  her  work — "  He's  got  good  eyes," 
she  said. 

"  Oh  !  his  eyes  are  all  right,  he's  Irish."  The  goddess 
tossed  her  head. 

'  But  he  hasn't  got  a  ship  ?  " 

'  No — and  won't." 

*  Why  not  ?  " 

'  'Cause  he's  on  the  Black  List,  ducky." 

'  What's  that  ?  "  came  without  fire  from  the  goddess 
who  worked. 

"  The  List  at  Lloyd's,  of  course." 

She  rose  from  her  chair  with  a  movement  of  impatience 
and  went  out  to  refresh  a  group  of  three  who  required,  on 
the  opposite  side  of  a  glass  partition,  pints  of  "  four-'alf  " 
and  countered  the  coin  to  pay  for  it. 

They  were  British  workmen  from  the  lower  reaches  of 
Riverton,  and  Denis  O'Hagan  contributed  to  the  cost  of 
education  and  maintenance  of  their  children.  The  tram 
fares  necessary  to  bring  them  to  and  from  school  without 
the  exertion  of  walking  came  also  out  of  Denis  O'Hagan's 
pocket  in  common  with  all  other  ratepayers. 

The  men  consumed  their  pints  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a  blood-spattered  jangle  of  talk,  or  what  passes  for  talk, 


AT  THE   GANGWAY  95 

and  demanded  additional  pints.  Again  one  laid  the 
essential  price  on  the  counter.  The  goddess  swept  it  into 
one  hand,  dropped  it  in  a  machine  which  rang  a  bell, 
tendered  the  change  and  served  again  three  "  four-'alfs  " 
— whatever  that  may  be. 

She  returned  to  her  friend  and  to  her  subject  with  the 
air  of  one  who  had  missed  an  opportunity. 

"  I  wouldn't  take  a  penny  from  him  if  I  could  manage 
it,"  she  confided,  "  but  there — that  sort  are  so  bloomin' 
proud  you  can't  do  anything  with  them." 

"  Him  "  obviously  referred  to  Captain  O'Hagan.  The 
goddess  took  up  a  stocking,  inserted  her  hand,  and  drew 
it  slowly  across  a  clenched  fist. 

"  What's  he  down  here  for  ?  "  her  friend  questioned, 
briskly  making  holes  while  the  other  searched  for  them. 

"  Dockwallopin',  of  course." 

"  What's  that  ?  " 

"  Why — lookin'  for  a  ship  in  the  docks.  My  !  haven't 
you  tumbled  to  that  ?  " 

Her  friend  sniggered. 

"  Looks  like  it,  doesn't  it  ?  "  Then,  after  a  small 
silence,  "  An'  why  can't  he  get  one  ?  " 

"  Be-cause,"  said  the  goddess  with  extreme  deliberation 
as  she  drew  the  foot  of  her  stocking  round  her  hand,  "  he's 
on  the  Black  List." 

"  Yes — but  how  did  he  get  on  your  '  Black  List,'  as  you 
call  it  ?  " 

"  'Tisn't  mine,  ducky — it's  Lloyd's,  and  he  got  on  it  as 
usual,  be-cause — he — lost — his — ship." 

Even  this  slow  enunciation  failed  to  stay  curiosity. 
The  girl  who  had  remarked  on  the  quality  of  O'Hagan's 
eyes  glanced  up  and  said — "  Did  he  try  to  lose  it  ?  " 

This  appeared  to  irritate  the  goddess.  She  answered 
swiftly — 

"  So  you've  got  hold  of  it,  too  1  I  don't  believe  it  ... 
go  an'  ask  him — with  your  '  try '  !  Does  he  look  like  the 
sort  that  would  try  ?  "  she  flamed.  "  You  are  green  !  " 
She  threw  down  the  stocking  and  found  another. 

There  came  a  cry  from  the  bar  and  she  rose  to  provide 
matches  for  the  drinkers  of  "  four-'alf." 

"  They  all  go  on  the  Black  List,"  she  said  with  the  calm 
of  an  angry  woman  on  her  return,  "  if  they  lose  their  ships. 
I  call  it  downright  murder." 

"'  Seems  to  me,  dear,"  her  friend  commented,  her  head 


96  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

on  one  side  as  she  examined  the  holes  she  had  made, 
"  that  you  are  sweet  on  him." 

"  Sweet !  "  said  the  goddess.  "  I  like  that.  Oh  !  I 
do  like  that  .  .  .  why " — she  rose  expressionless  to  face 
her  friend — "  he's  married." 

"  Sorry,"  said  the  friend,  and  resumed  her  work  as  the 
goddess  on  duty  went  out.  "  For  you,"  she  added  when 
she  sat  alone  within  the  small  room. 

O'Hagan  finished  his  whisky,  buttoned  his  coat  and 
passed,  unconscious  of  the  interest  he  had  inspired,  once 
more  into  the  drizzle. 

And  outside  the  canteen  he  came  suddenly  upon  the 
great  personage  for  whom  he  had  waited,  got  wet  and 
broken  his  rule. 

"  That  you,  O'Hagan  ?  " 

The  dapper  little  man  halted  for  a  brief  moment,  and 
with  a  swift  glance  added — "  Want  to  see  me  ?  " 

''  Yes — if  you  can  spare  a  minute,  sir." 

"  Presently.     Come  on  board." 

They  marched  side  by  side  in  the  direction  indicated. 
Captain  Worsdale's  lips  were  firmly  set. 


CHAPTER  X 

CAPTAIN   WORSDALE 

THE  marine  superintendent  of  a  mailship  service  is  a 
man  of  some  consequence  when  he  is  at  the  docks  or  on 
the  fine  promenade  of  one  of  the  vessels  which  shine  at  his 
bidding ;  but  in  the  city,  among  magnates  who  rule  the 
shipping,  he  stands  on  a  lower  pedestal.  He  is,  in  point 
of  fact,  the  go-between  who  makes  palatable  unpalatable 
orders  ;  who  conciliates  both  officers  and  surveyors  ;  who 
is  benign  and  bland  even  when  things  have  gone  irrevo- 
cably to  the  devil.  He  is  a  man  of  parts.  He  wears  a  top 
hat  and  carries  an  umbrella  as  regularly  as  does  a  Babu. 

Captain  Worsdale  went  farther  from  the  sea  in  the  mere 
matter  of  attire  than  do  most  of  his  confreres,  but,  then, 
he  was  also  a  shipowner.  He  wore  spats  and  dangled  an 
eyeglass  ;  but  he  was  smart  and  kindly — a  man  who  knew 
quite  well  that  given  certain  conditions  accidents  were 
inevitable.  Who  acknowledged  indeed  that  to-day  most 
of  those  conditions  are  present. 

But  Worsdale  had  detected  O'Hagan  emerging  from  the 
door  of  the  canteen  and  he  was  not  pleased. 

"  I  got  your  note,"  he  said  a  little  stiffly.  "  I  shall  be 
occupied  for  some  time ;  but  come  up  and  find  shelter 
from  the  rain." 

He  led  the  way  at  a  smart  walk  down  the  slope  and  along 
the  quay.  O'Hagan  recognising  his  disadvantage  followed 
at  heel.  The  attitude  of  the  British  shipmaster  when 
seeking  rehabilitation  at  the  hands  of  those  who  rule  was 
already  in  some  degree  O'Hagan's.  But  for  the  fact  that 
these  two  men  had  come  together  when  they  did,  O'Hagan 
would  in  all  probability  have  been  at  Worsdale's  side. 

They  came  to  the  mailship's  gangway,  climbed  it,  and 
the  marine  superintendent  became  immersed  in  the 
business  which  called  him  daily  to  the  docks.  For  half 
an  hour  O'Hagan  cooled  his  heels  on  the  lee  side  of  a  house 
upon  the  promenade  ;  then  a  quartermaster  approached 
and  led  him  to  the  presence. 

B.F.  a 


98  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

Captain  Worsdale  was  seated  and  at  his  ease  in  the 
commander's  room  when  O'Hagan  entered.  He  looked 
up  and  said  suavely — 

"  Sit  down  "  ;  then  added,  "  it's  a  beast  of  a  day." 

O'Hagan  interpreted  this  as  a  hint  that  his  friend  was 
less  friendly  than  when  he  had  served  under  him.  He 
decided  to  be  brief. 

"  If  you  don't  mind,  sir,"  he  answered,  "  I  think  I  had 
better  stand.  I'm  rather  damp.  I  need  not  keep  you  a 
minute." 

"  Nonsense,"  came  irascibly  from  the  stern  lips. 
"  Take  off  your  coat  and  sit." 

O'Hagan  complied.  He  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling 
that  in  spite  of  his  hope,  in  spite  of  Lucy's  persuasion,  all 
would  not  be  well  with  him  at  this  interview.  Worsdale's 
crisp  phrase  confirmed  this  as  he  sat  down — 

"  Yes — it  is  wet.  You  look  drenched  .  .  .  well,  what 
can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  thought,  sir,"  said  O'Hagan  with  what  precision  he 
could  summon,  "  that  you  might  perhaps  be  able  to  take 
me  on  again.  I've  had  very  little  luck  lately,  and  I  am 
beginning  to  need  it." 

The  marine  superintendent,  not  an  unkindly  man  as 
events  have  shown,  sat  nevertheless  with  pursed  lips  over 
this. 

"  You  resigned  the  service,"  he  said  at  length,  "  against 
my  advice." 

"  I  did,"  O'Hagan  admitted. 

"  You  wanted  to  better  yourself,  as  the  saying  goes  ?  " 

"  I  had  the  chance  of  command,  sir — and  I  was  engaged 
to  be  married.  I  couldn't  marry  on  my  pay  as  second 
officer  here.  ..." 

"  Precisely.  You  wanted  to  better  yourself  .  .  .  and 
you  have  not  bettered  yourself.  You  have  come  a  cropper 
— a  pretty  bad  one,  too — and  now  you  want  to  come  back 
into  the  service.  ...  It  is  the  old  story.  I  have  heard  it 
until  I  am  tired.  ..." 

O'Hagan  made  no  response. 

"  The  fact  is  that  you  young  men  will  never  learn 
patience,"  said  Worsdale,  his  manner  less  hard,  more 
persuasive.  "  You  are  always  in  a  hurry  to  get  command 
or  to  get  married.  What  use  is  a  wife  to  a  sailor  ?  What 
earthly  use  is  a  sailor  to  the  woman  fool  enough  to 
marry  him  ?  Can  he  guard  her  ?  Can  he  give  her  com- 


CAPTAIN  WORSDALE  99 

forts — can  he  even  lock  up  the  house  at  night  for  her  ? 
When  he  is  at  sea,  what  is  there  for  her  to  do — what  can 
she  do  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  Faith  !  not  much  bar  pray  for  him,"  O'Hagan  gave 
back,  sore  at  this  tirade,  as  he  termed  it. 

"  Pray  !  "  The  marine  superintendent  crooned  over 
this,  nodding  his  grey  head.  "  And  that  means  that  her 
eyes  will  be  red  for  him — if  she  is  the  right  sort ;  hard  if 
she  is  the  wrong  .  .  .  well,  are  you  married  ?  " 

'  I  am,  sir." 

'  Hum  !    Had  any  chance  of  work  since  the  inquiry  ?  " 

'  None,  sir." 

'  Any  children — babies,  for  instance  ?  " 

'  No." 

O'Hagan  might  have  trusted  that  grey  head  farther, 
but  for  some  reason  he  had  not  analysed  he  could  not 
speak  of  the  moment  now  so  near. 

"  Lucky  for  you  that  is  so,"  Captain  Worsdale  com- 
mented. "  And  now,  as  I  understand  it,  you  want  to 
come  back  here.  .  .  .  Well — I  must  be  quite  candid, 
O'Hagan.  I  can't  put  you  on.  It  would  not  be  fair  to 
you  if  I  did — for,  with  your  record,  your  late  record,"  he 
added  with  a  frown,  "  you  could  never  get  command  in 
this  service.  I  question  whether  my  directors  would 
sanction  your  employment  even  as  an  officer  after  what 
has  occurred — and,  of  course,  in  your  case  I  should  be 
compelled  to  consult  them."  The  frown  grew  in  intensity. 
He  looked  straight  into  the  younger  man's  eyes.  "  You 
see  that,  don't  you  ?  "  he  added,  to  break  the  silence. 

O'Hagan,  sitting  very  still,  his  mind  on  Lucy's  dis- 
appointment when  this  should  be  made  plain  to  her, 
admitted  that  he  saw. 

"  You  are  broken,  my  boy,"  the  marine  superintendent 
thundered,  leaning  forward  and  striking  the  arm  of  his 
chair.  "  I  would  not  trouble  to  tell  many  men  that — but 
you  .  .  .  well,  it  is  the  truth  of  this  matter.  .  .  . 
"  Broken,"  he  added  with  swift  explanation,  "  by  events. 
And  the  man  who  is  broken  at  sea  might  just  as  well 
be  dead.  They  have  suspended  your  certificate,"  he 
enunciated,  calmly  satirical.  "  Do  you  suppose  you  can 
live  that  down  ?  They  have  put  you  on  the  Black  List 
at  Lloyd's.  .  .  ." 

O'Hagan  moved  slightly  under  the  blow,  but  remained 
quiet. 

H  2 


100  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Do  you  suppose  you  can  live  that  down — without 
help  ?  '*  he  leaned  back  facing  the  light,  his  eyes  stern. 
"  They  have  done  all  they  can  to  break  you  and  you  have 
helped  them  to  do  it.  Man  !  " — he  became  irascibly  the 
adviser  at  this  stage — -"if  you  wish  to  remain  at  sea  .  .  . 
if  it  is  necessary  for  you  to  earn  your  living  in  future  as  a 
sailor,  go  and  induce  authority  to  issue  a  V.C.  which  men 
of  the  sea  may  win — and  when  you  have  done  that  go  out, 
by  the  Lord !  and  win  it  yourself.  Win  it !  Then  if  you 
still  wish  to  get  back  into  the  Eastern  mail  service  I  think 
I  could  induce  my  directors  to  overlook  that  bit  smudge 
you've  got  on  your  qualifications." 

O'Hagan  shuffled  his  wet  feet  on  the  deck.  He  squared 
his  shoulders  with  the  phrase  which  leaped. 

"  Faith  !  "  he  said,  "  that  will  take  me  a  month  of 
Sundays  anyhow." 

Worsdale  eyed  him  with  large  perspicacity. 

"  It's  a  thing  you  can  do  if  my  recollection  is  not  at 
fault,"  he  said  in  comment.  "  I  wasn't  your  commander 
for  nothing.  I  knew  my  officers — and  if  you  hadn't  been 
such  a  fool  I  would  have  had  you  chief  officer  now  in  the 
old  ship.  .  .  .  Chief,  man,  a  gentlemanly  billet,  a  respon- 
sible one  .  .  .  and  well  on  your  way  to  command.  And 
here  you  are  ex-master  of  a  wall-sided  tramp  with  a 
marked  certificate  and  no  prospects,  just  because  you 
couldn't  rest  content  without  dragging  a  woman  to  the 
altar.  Man  !  it  was  the  halter  you  were  after — the  halter," 
he  reiterated  again  with  heat,  "  and  you  have  it  round  your 
neck." 

O'Hagan  scarcely  moved  under  this  criticism.  The  rain 
gurgling  in  the  gutters  ran  past  the  open  door  and  fell  in 
rusty  streams  upon  the  dock  wall.  Greyness  surrounded 
them.  They  were  the  centre  of  it ;  perched  high  up, 
examining  its  effect  on  their  lives. 

O'Hagan  scarcely  took  Worsdale  literally.  He  had 
served  under  him  and  was  accustomed  to  what  used  to  be 
termed  "  the  old  man's  gassing."  Nor  can  you,  if  you 
consider  the  matter,  convince  a  man  young  as  O'Hagan, 
thrilling  still  with  the  romance  and  beauty  of  his  marriage, 
that  he  has  made  the  mistake  of  his  life.  Indeed  he  had 
decided  this  long  ago  and  was  scarcely  in  the  mood  for 
retraction. 

He  knew  (as  who  does  not  ?)  that  the  wife  of  a  man  in 
a  subordinate  position  is  termed  an  encumbrance ;  that 


CAPTAIN  WORSDALE  101 

children  are  the  last  straw.  For  that  reason  he  had  come 
out  of  the  mail  service  and  taken  command  in  a  tramp 
where  it  seemed  probable  he  would  be  able  to  earn  enough 
to  keep  a  wife,  if  not  children. 

Of  course  it  was  a  blunder ;  but  what  sailor  worth  his 
salt  would  be  prepared  to  admit  it  ?  Certainly  not  Denis 
O'Hagan,  master  mariner  in  the  great  feeding  department 
of  the  British  nation ;  now  with  a  smudged  certificate 
and  nearing  difficulty.  The  dark  eyes  of  Lucy  Faulkner 
came  for  ever  between  him  and  recantation ;  the  know- 
ledge that  she  would  welcome  him  even  now  that  he  was 
beaten. 

"What  in  the  world  induced  you  to  leave  us?" 
Worsdale  grumbled  again,  his  eye  on  the  well-set-up  figure, 
the  clean  face  and  cultured  mien.  "  They  don't  want 
gentlemen  in  tramps,  they  want  a  chap  who  will  kow-tow 
to  owners  and  agents  and  all  the  small  fry  who  run  them. 
They  want  men  without  pride,  or  independence,  or  brain, 
by  gad  !  .  .  .  a  sort  of  guard  to  slam  the  doors  for  the 
engine-driver  who  runs  the  train.  ..." 

"  I  don't  know  that  they  want  gentlemen  in  the  mail 
service,  sir,"  O'Hagan  countered.  "  At  all  events  they 
don't  pay  for  accent  if  they  require  it.  .  .  ." 

"  No — I  grant  that  .  .  .  but  it  is  a  gentlemanly  billet, 
my  boy." 

"  A  man  can't  live  on  that,  captain." 

"  You  could,  O'Hagan,"  Worsdale  enunciated  as  he 
rose  to  close  a  port  past  which  the  rain  sobbed,  "  but  now 
you  are  married  you  must  take  the  first  job  that  comes  your 
way.  And  if  you  wish  to  get  back  into  the  Eastern  Mail 
Service" — he  resumed  his  seat — "you  must  do  something 
big  to  show  shipowners,  and  Lloyd's,  by  Jove  !  you  aren't 
the  fool  that  inquiry  showed  you  to  be  ...  and  you  must 
be  in  command  to  do  it.  .  .  ." 

"  You  think  I  was  a  fool,  too,  sir,"  O'Hagan  blurted, 
red  to  the  eyes. 

"  I  know  you  are  not — but  there  are  others  who  do  not 
know  you,  and  they  read  the  evidence  ..."  Worsdale 
commented,  watching. 

"  If  you  hadn't  come  and  spoken  for  me,  I  should 
have  been  damned,"  O'Hagan  ventured,  leaning  forward. 
"  I  don't  think  it  was  quite  the  fair  thing  to  pill  a 
man.  .  .  ." 

"  They  were  defending  themselves.    You  said  the  ship 


102  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

was  unseaworthy — as  very  likely  she  was  .  .  .  but,  good 
God,  man  !  hadn't  you  sense  enough  to  see  that  it  wouldn't 
do  to  say  so  ?  ...  Didn't  I  tell  you  years  ago  that  only 
millionaires  can  afford  to  speak  the  truth.  You  have  the 
whole  ring  on  your  back.  You  have  a  Government 
department  on  your  back.  .  .  .  Pish  !  Don't  talk  of  it. 
Tell  me  what  you  are  going  to  do — quickly,  too,  as  I  have 
but  little  spare  time.  .  .  .  ' 

O'Hagan  replied  meekly  enough  that  he  hoped  to  get 
a  berth  somewhere,  and  that  if  he  might  use  Captain 
Worsdale's  name.  .  .  . 

"  Certainly.  Use  it  by  all  means.  Refer  anyone  you 
like  to  me.  I  will  do  my  best  .  .  .  but  about  your 
sentence,  man — your  six  months',  or  whatever  it  was, 
suspension  .  .  .  what  are  you  doing  about  that  ?  " 

"  I  threatened  to  appeal,  sir — but  I'm  afraid  the  funds 
won't  run  to  it." 

"  Then  you  must  find  funds.  It  is  essential.  What 
about  the  share  you  spoke  of  in  this  tin-foil  ship  company  ? 
Have  they  paid  you  yet  ?  " 

"  No — I  am  told  the  underwriters  have  not  settled  the 
claim  yet.  ..." 

"  And  you  believe  that  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  option,  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

"  You  have.  The  thing  is  a  lie.  The  underwriters 
have  paid.  Get  your  lawyer  on  these  people  .  .  .  and, 
look  here  now  .  .  .  not  a  word,  mind — but  if  you  can't 
raise  the  funds  draw  on  me  and  pay  me  back  when  you 
have  recovered.  ..." 

O'Hagan  rose,  flushed  as  a  boy,  to  stammer  out  his 
thanks.  He  had  forgotten  the  more  pressing  necessity, 
the  main  reason  which  had  brought  him  to  see  Worsdale, 
and  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment  gave  vent  to 
his  gratitude  in  full  measure.  But  Worsdale  halted 
him. 

"Never  mind  that,"  he  said.  "It  is  imperative  to  get 
that  damned  sentence  annulled.  The  judgment  was 
biassed — you  helped  to  bias  it.  ... 

"  It  was  a  drab  case,  my  boy,"  he  went  on  more  quietly, 
but  very  seriously,  "  a  drab  case  on  a  drab  subject  heard 
amidst  drab  surroundings  by  a  man  with  a  drab  title  who 
was  aided  and  advised  by  assessors  with  drab  stipends. 
I  would  quash  the  whole  system  if  I  had  my  way.  I  would 
break  any  magistrate  body  who  ventured  to  take  away 


CAPTAIN  WORSDALE 


103 


the  certificate  of  a  British  shipmaster.  What  does  he 
know  of  the  questions  involved  ?  What  does  he  know  of 
what  lies  behind  ?  .  .  ." 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  marched  towards  the  door,  which 
he  opened.  O'Hagan  stood  to  thank  him,  then  again  the 
great  little  man  turned  and  said  in  his  ear — 

"  And  if  I  may  give  you  a  word  of  advice,  it  would  be, 
keep  out  of  the  canteen  over  there."  He  jerked  his  head 
to  indicate  the  bridge  to  the  dock  station,  and  O'Hagan 
met  him  at  once — 

"  I  had  to  get  a  bit  of  lunch  somewhere,  sir  .  .  . 
There's " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know ;  but  you  had  something  stronger 
than  beef  tea,  and  there  are  those  allegations  of  the 
inquiry  to  be  remembered."  He  took  him  by  the  shoulder 
and  checked  the  quick  answer  which  would  have  fallen. 
"  Keep  cool,  man.  Go  canny,  and  if  it  is  necessary  to  eat 
or  drink  when  you  are  at  the  docks,  carry  a  sandwich  and 
a  flask  of  cold  tea  ...  let  people  see  that  it  is  tea." 

"  You  know  me,  sir — it  doesn't  matter  two  straws " 

O'Hagan  commenced. 

"  It  does.  I  can't  help  you  if  you  do  not  help  me  to 
help  you.  You  have  the  brand  of  Cain  on  you.  Put 
there,  by  gad  !  by  a  person  who  made  a  fortune  by  selling 
knick-knacks.  Go  away  and  get  it  wiped  off  ...  then  I 
can  do  something  for  you  and  that  meddlesome  person 
who  got  you  out  of  my  power  and  married  you.  ..." 

Again  the  hot  flush  on  O'Hagan's  keen  face  and  the 
swift  rejoinder — 

"  She  will  thank  you,  even  if  I  can't.  If  you  back  me 
it  will  be  easy  .  .  .  easy  as  shelling  peas." 

"  Will  it  ?  "  said  Worsdale,  as  he  faced  the  rain  going 
towards  the  bridge. 

He  frowned  over  the  words — but  O'Hagan  rubbed 
hands.  He  was  jubilant — jubilant. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE   MEAXINO    OF   IT 

COMMANDER  WORSDALE,  R.X.R.,  as  he  was  officially 
designated,  occupied  chambers  within  a  few  minutes' 
walk  of  Lancaster  Gate  station  when  in  town.  He  was  a 
bachelor  of  considerable  wealth  who  for  many  years  had 
been  Commodore  of  that  line  of  splendid  vessels  known 
here  as  the  Eastern  Mail  Service.  Since  his  retirement  he 
had  acted  as  marine  superintendent  of  the  fleet.  One 
could  not  well  imagine  the  moment  when  of  his  own  will 
Worsdale  would  sever  his  connection  with  ships.  Had  he 
desired  to  "  move  up  higher  "  he  might  have  taken  his 
seat  as  a  director  in  virtue  of  his  holding  hi  the  company  ; 
but  he  refused  to  be  bothered  with  business,  as  he  termed 
it.  He  said  he  did  not  understand  business,  that  he  did 
not  wish  to  understand  it ;  but  if  the  directors  had  no 
alternative  scheme,  he  wished  to  keep  in  touch  with  the 
ships  by  commanding  them  when  hi  dock. 

And  so,  as  was  set  forth,  Captain  Worsdale  retained  his 
office. 

Now  several  days  had  elapsed  since  his  meeting  with 
Denis  O'Hagan,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  heard  nothing 
from  him  rather  troubled  the  great  little  man,  as  his 
officers  called  him.  Each  night  on  his  return  from  the 
city  he  had  made  inquiries  as  to  whether  a  Captain 
O'Hagan  had  called,  and  had  received  a  reply  in  the 
negative.  To-day,  however,  a  message  had  reached  his 
office  asking  whether  he  would  be  at  home  to-night.  He 
replied  hi  the  affirmative ;  then  came  word  that  Mr. 
Stephen  Hammond  would  run  round  after  dinner  to  see 
him  with  reference  to  a  certain  Mr.  O'Hagan. 

Naturally  Worsdale  had  very  little  difficulty  in  coming 
to  the  conclusion  that  O'Hagan  by  some  chance  knew 
his  friend  Hammond,  and  it  increased  the  interest  which 
he  already  acknowledged  in  that  young  reprobate  as  he 
called  him. 

It  was  nine  o'clock.    Worsdale,  comfortable  in  an  arm 


THE  MEANING  OF  IT  105 

chair  before  his  fire,  occupied  himself  with  an  evening 
paper.  He  smoked  with  the  enjoyment  of  one  who  could 
afford  a  good  brand.  On  a  table  near  at  hand  was  the 
essential  liquid.  Behind  it,  opening  the  door.  Jenks 
saying  in  his  best  manner — "  Mr.  Stephen  'Ammond, 
sir,"  and  vanishing  in  silence. 

Worsdale  rose  and  grasped  his  friend's  outstretched 
hand.  "  So  good  of  you  to  come  round  to  cheer  me  up — 
what  is  it,  eh  ?  " 

"  A  mutual  liking,  I  gather.  Denis  O'Hagan,  to  speak 
by  the  book — but  I  should  have  called  in  any  case  in  a 
few  days  to  tell  you  about  the  poor  old  father." 

"  Ah  !     How  is  he  ?  " 

"  Better,  I'm  thankful  to  say — but  it  has  been  a  wrench 
to  turn  out  after  all  these  years." 

"  I  can  well  imagine  it.  It  would  kill  me,"  Worsdale 
commented.  "  Come  over  and  make  yourself  comfortable — 
choose  your  chair,  there  are  cigars,  cigarettes,  whisky  ..." 

"  Thanks,  awfully.     I'll  turn  on  a  pipe,  if  I  may." 

"  Do  by  all  means  .  .  .  well,  what  about  this  boy  ?  " 

The  lawyer's  face  became  more  serious.  He  stuffed 
tobacco  into  his  pipe,  lighted  a  match  and  said — "  I  don't 
quite  like  it,"  and  commenced  to  pull.  "  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  thing  looks  pretty  dangerous  for  him."  He 
dowsed  the  match  and  leaned  back  in  full  blast. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  him — I  don't  remember  your 
name  in  the  case  ..."  Worsdale  threw  out. 

"  No.  We  had  nothing  to  do  with  that.  I  wish  we 
had.  .  .  .  No — he  and  I  were  at  the  same  school — 
Winchester,  you  know  .  .  .  and  of  course  that  counts." 

"  But  how  did  you  happen  to  know  that — you  weren't 
contemporaries,  I  should  say." 

"  No.  I  was  at  Oxford  in  his  time.  He  came  to  apply 
for  that  secretaryship  for  my  father,  you  remember.  We 
had  about  five  hundred  applications.  Took  us  a  week  to 
clear  up — and  I  happened  to  see  him.  He  has  rather  a 
good  face — don't  you  agree  ?  " 

"  He  is  as  strong  as  they  are  made,"  WTorsdale  replied. 
"  I  wish  we  could  officer  the  fleet  with  his  type.  We  don't 
get  many  parsons'  sons  in  these  days — they  seem  as  shy 
of  the  merchant  service  as  of  the  church.  It  was  a  good 
type.  We  thought  it  was  going  to  last  for  ever,  so  we 
starved  it  out,  and  now  we  would  give  our  ears  to  see  it 
back." 


106  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  How  ?     I  don't  follow  quite,"  Hammond  questioned. 

"  There  was  a  day,  my  friend,"  Worsdale  returned, 
"  when  shipowners  openly  bragged  that  they  could  flout 
officers  with  impunity.  '  Officers  !  '  a  very  big  personage 
once  said  in  my  hearing,  '  Phit !  I  could  man  my  fleet  with 
them  by  holding  up  my  little  finger  in  Fenchurch  Street.' 
And  that  was  so.  But  it  no  longer  is  so,  and  if  that 
gentleman  were  alive  to-day  he  would  be  the  first  to  own 
it — and,  between  ourselves,  to  curse  the  new  conditions." 

"  I  gather,  then,  you  are  inclined  to  think  our  friend 
O'Hagan  has  been  harshly  treated,"  Hammond  suggested, 
between  puffs. 

"  Leading  questions,  eh  ?  "  Worsdale  chuckled,  enjoy- 
ing himself  immensely,  his  Scottish  descent  in  evidence. 
"  Man  !  You  would  seduce  Auld  Nick  himself  wi'  your 
inceedious  method  of  speech.  It's  well  I  know  ye — it's 
well  I  knew  your  father  and  have  respect  for  ye  as  well. 
Hoot !  man,  fill  up  your  glass  and  I'll  tell  you  fast  enough 
what  I  think — fast  enough,  because  I  believe  you  are 
anxious  to  read  what  I  know  .  .  .  what  I  learned  when 
you  and  that  young  fool,  O'Hagan,  were  at  school." 

Hammond  laughed  and  complied — "  I  should  not  have 
ventured  to  draw  you,"  he  said  as  he  set  down  the  decanter, 
"  but  O'Hagan  came  to  see  me  this  morning  and  I  tried 

to  help  him "  he  put  it  so  as  he  added  Apollinaris  to 

his  whisky,  "  but  I  might  have  saved  my  time  ..." 

"  Urn  !  "  Worsdale  broke  in.  "  I  tried  that  myself,  but 
he  didn't  chip  in.  Is  he  in  monetary  straits,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  He  told  me  this  morning  someone  has  put  in  a  distraint, 
landlord  or  tax  people — I  don't  know  which." 

"  Poor  devil !  " 

"  It  is  very  shocking,  of  course,  but  I  gathered  he  had 
nothing  to  say  against  the  fairness  of  his  trial,  as  he  calls 
it.  .  .  ." 

"  Fairness — no.  It's  the  system  he  objects  to — and  I, 
as  a  master  mariner  of  forty  years'  standing,  object  to. 
Why,  he  was  tried  before  magistrates — magistrates,  man  1  " 

"  With  assessors,  of  course." 

"  Assessors  !  I  like  to  hear  you  glib  lawyer  folk  talk. 
You  know  what  you  are  speaking  of,  Stephen  Hammond 
— and  I  know,  too,  what  I  am  speaking  of.  We  are  a  pair 
of  expairts,  mind — you  a  marine  lawyer,  top  notch,  I  a 
marine  shellback,  top  notch,  too — in  the  days  that 
were.  . 


THE  MEANING  OF  IT  107 

"  Fair  !  Of  course  the  inquiry  was  fair.  No  one  in  his 
senses  goes  out  of  his  way  to  assail  His  Majesty's  Commis- 
sion of  the  Peace.  But  we  do  say  magistrates  don't  know 
a  damned  thing  about  the  sea,  or  sailors  or  cargo,  or  mails 
— and  they  never  will  know.  How  can  they  ?  It  took 
me  thirty  years,  my  friend,  to  learn  the  first  thing  about 
ships  .  .  .  an'  they  are  supposed  to  imbibe  it  fra 
assessors.  .  .  . 

"  It  can't  be  done.  A  position  crops  up  at  every 
inquiry  that  requires  elucidation  by  the  assessors — eh  ?  " 

"  Granted." 

"  An'  there  are  perhaps  forty-five  assessors  an'  each  one 
will  find  a  new  and  explicit  vairsion  o'  the  problem,  an' 
every  one  o'  them  is  the  guide  of  your  magistrate.  I  say 
you  can't  work  out  problems  on  a  chart  in  court  with  or 
without  a  pencil  and  parallel  ruler  .  .  .  at  least,  if  you  do, 
each  man  will  come  to  a  new  conclusion  from  the  same 
elementary  facts.  .  .  . 

"  The  sea,  Stephen,  my  friend,  is  like  nothing  else  on 
God's  world.  It  has  a  mind  of  its  own.  It  works  in  its 
own  way.  Currents  come  out  of  no  ordered  scheme. 
The  cause  of  them  is  intermittent  and  varying  in  degree. 
To-day  they  are  here,  flicking  us  sidelong ;  to-morrow 
they  are  gone,  and  to-morrow  they  may  be  setting  from 
the  opposite  quarter.  No  two  assessors  think  alike  on 
the  subject — how,  then,  is  it  possible  that  they  should 
give  any  sort  of  coherent  advice  to  magistrates  who  know 
nothing.  ..." 

"  Yes.     I  admit  that.     I  see  the  difficulty." 

"  Of  course  you  do  ...  but  there's  more  to  consider 
yet.  There's  the  question  of  how  many  men  constitute 
a  well-manned  ship,  and  per  contra  how  many  men  an 
under-manned  ship  ;  how  deep  shall  a  vessel  be  loaded  in 
winter  time,  how  deep  in  summer.  There  is  the  question 
whether  it  was  wise  to  send  a  ship  built  for  the  West  India 
trade  on  the  Great  Circle  between  the  Cape  and  New 
Zealand  ;  whether  it  is  honest  to  send  a  Mediterranean 
tramp,  manned  by  Chinese  coolies,  across  the  North 
Atlantic  in  winter  time.  .  .  .  And  there  is  the  question 
whether  deckloads  are  safe  or  whether  they  are  a  mere 
bribe  to  open  the  gates  o'  heaven  to  her  crew.  .  .  . 

"  How  can  assessors  instil  factors  like  these  into  the 
minds  of  men  whose  whole  concern  with  trade  is  to  make 
it  pay.  Make  your  assessors  judges — put  them  in  the 


108  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

chair  of  authority  and  pay  them  a  wage  commensurate 
with  their  duties.  It  is  a  cheap  thing  this  advisory 
business,  and  there  is  too  much  of  it.  Mind,  I  am  not 
hitting  at  our  magistracy  ;  but  on  the  other  hand  I  hold 
no  brief  for  them.  They  do  what  they  can  in  extremely 
difficult  conditions,  and  I  would  modify  that  difficulty  by 
moving  the  finer  men  from  our  services,  not  to  assessor- 
ships,  but  to  judgeships.  That  would  be  better  than 
retiring  them  on  an  allowance  granted  '  by  the  grace  of 
their  board  of  directors  '  when  their  nerve  has  gone." 

Worsdale  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  pulled  for  some 
minutes  at  his  cigar,  then,  as  if  Hammond  had  challenged 
him,  he  came  back  with — 

"  I  know  what  I  am  talking  of,  my  friend.  I  have  been 
asked  to  sit  at  certain  inquiries  as  assessor ;  but  I  have 
refused.  It  is  an  honour  I  do  not  covet.  ...  It  is  a 
responsibility  I  do  not  intend  to  undertake — and  the  fees 
a  man  may  earn  provoke  laughter  from  the  big-wigs  of 
your  cloth  who  share  the  plunder.  ..." 

Again  he  flung  back  in  his  chair  to  enjoy  that  cigar,  to 
note  Hammond's  laughter  which  followed  that  point  he  had 
made,  and  to  sip  from  the  glass  which  stood  at  his  elbow. 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  felt  deeply  in  this  matter. 
The  Scot  appeared  only  when  he  was  greatly  moved,  and 
then  it  rang  beautifully.  It  was  easy  to  read,  too,  that 
he  had  a  strong  liking  for  O'Hagan.  And  as  if  the  thought 
which  lurked  in  Hammond's  brain  had  passed  straight  to 
Worsdale,  the  great  little  man  broke  out  afresh  with — 

"  Damned  young  fool !  I  would  have  had  him  in 
command  in  no  time,  but  he  must  needs  give  me  the  slip 
and  get  married  to  some  woman  thing  who  should  have 
known  better  than  to  make  love  to  a  sailor.  ..." 

"  And  why  not  a  sailor  ?  "  Hammond  commented, 
amused  beyond  words. 

"  If  you  care  to  know  exactly  my  opinion,"  said 
Worsdale  with  clean-cut  phrase,  "  I  should  say  that  there 
are  two  classes  of  men  whom  no  woman  with  any  respect 
for  herself  should  think  of  marrying.  One  is  a  sailor  .  .  . 
he's  always  at  sea  ;  the  other  is  a  literary  man  .  .  .  he's 
always  at  home.  You  ask  any  woman  what  these  things 
mean — and  ..." 

There  came  a  knock  on  the  door  and  Jenks  appeared 
carrying  a  salver,  which  he  presented  to  his  master.  Upon 
it  was  a  card. 


THE  MEANING  OF  IT  109 

'Talk  of  the  devil,"  Worsdale  quoted,  half  rising  in  his 
chair. 

"  Not  O'Hagan  ?  "  Hammond  questioned. 

Worsdale  blinked  and  turned  to  Jenks. 

"  Ask  him  to  come  in.     Bring  him  in  at  once." 

Jenks  moved  to  obey. 

"  Something  wrong,  '  Worsdale  whispered. 

Hammond  admitted  the  suggestion  without  speech. 
Then  in  a  moment  O'Hagan  entered.  He  looked  pale. 
There  was  a  drawn  look  about  his  eyes  ;  but  directly  he 
saw  that  Captain  Worsdale  was  not  alone  he  stood  still. 

*'  I  didn't  understand  you  were  engaged,  sir,"  he  said 
apologetically.  "  Let  me  call  at  some  other  time." 

The  words  were  calm  enough ;  but  his  eyes  gave  him 
away. 

Jenks  crossed  to  the  sideboard  and  returned  to  place  an 
additional  tumbler  on  the  table.  He  retired  as  silently  as 
he  had  come. 

"  You  see  ?  "  Worsdale  smiled,  the  signals  understood. 
"  You  are  expected.  Nonsense  !  Don  t  run  away  .  .  . 
I  think  you  know  my  friend  Mr.  Hammond  ?  " 

O'Hagan,  with  a  glance  of  increasing  confusion, 
acknowledged  that  he  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  meet 
him  only  a  few  hours  ago — "  but,"  he  stammered,  "  I  did 
not  know  that  you  were  friends — or  .  .  .  ."  And  here  he 
abruptly  paused. 

"  Not  only  friends,  O'Hagan,"  Worsdale  said,  to  put 
him  at  his  ease,  "  but  mutually  interested  in  your  case. 
To  be  quite  honest,  we  were  talking  of  you  when  you  were 
announced.  .  .  .  Sit  down.  Take  off  your  coat  first, 
then  sit  and  fill  your  glass.  That  man  of  mine  is  worth  his 
weight  in  gold.  Obsairve  his  grip  of  essential  facts  " ;  he 
pointed  to  the  glass,  smiling,  his  eyes  shining  large  behind 
spectacles.  "  Sit  down.  .  .  ." 

"  You  are  awfully  kind,"  O'Hagan  stammered  out. 
"  But  I  have  only  ten  minutes — for  I  simply  must  catch 

the  last  train  down  .  .  .  or "     Again  he  broke  off, 

stumbling  and  aflame  with  the  sense  of  his  position. 
"  The  fact  is,"  he  blurted  out,  "  Lucy  is  ill  ...  and  I 
daren't  stay  away.  .  .  ." 

"  Mrs.  O'Hagan  ?  "  Worsdale  questioned,  sympathetic 
beyond  all  knowledge  to  the  young  man  who  thought  he 
knew  him. 
Hammond  rose  from  his  chair  and  said,  "  If  you  don't 


110  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

mind  I  will  walk  round  the  flat.  I  haven't  seen  that  Turner 
you  tell  me  you  have  picked  up  ...  and  " — he  glanced  at 
O'Hagan — "two  can  talk  so  much  more  easily  than  three. 
I  will  order  a  cab  if  you  will  allow  me." 

He  nodded  and  went  out.  Then  Worsdale  turned  to  the 
young  officer  he  had  known  so  many  years  and  said — 

"  Now  tell  me  all  about  it." 

O'Hagan  sat  down  suddenly  in  his  chair  and  leaned 
forward,  chin  on  hands. 

"  I'm  broken,  sir,"  he  said,  between  gasps.  "  That's 
the  truth  of  it ;  they've  got  me  between  them  .  .  .  and  I 
have  Lucy  on  my  hands.  You  told  me  I  had  played  the 
fool  .  .  .  and  I  admit  it.  But  if  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co.  had 
been  honest  men  I  should  not  have  been  broken.  I  had  a 
bit  of  money  and  I  invested  it  with  them  .  .  .  and  now 
I  want  it  and  can't  get  it  without  more  fighting  and  lawyers' 
bills.  .  .  .  I'm  stony  !  "  he  cried  out  with  a  wry  twist. 
"  Broke,  by  the  Lord,  on  my  first  command !  and  I  feel 
like  twisting  the  neck  of  that  iibbering  beast  who  stole 
my  money.  If  I  got  near  him,  '  he  hissed  out  suddenly, 
"  I  should  hurt  him  .  .  .  but,"  he  added,  with  a  curious 
droop,  "he  is  as  safe  as  houses.  I  ...  I  haven't  the 
train  fare  to  reach  him." 

He  leaned  still  deeper  on  his  knees,  staring  at  the  fire 
..."  God  !  it's  cold,"  he  cried  out  sharply.  Then  in  a 
new  and  calmer  tone,  "  This  is  awfully  kind  of  you,  sir  .  .  . 
but  I  can't  stop.  I  must  get  back  to  Riverton  at  once." 

"  When  is  your  train  ?  Worsdale  asked,  with  a  touch 
of  command. 

"  Ten  forty-five,  sir  ...  Charing  Cross." 

Worsdale  consulted  his  watch,  rose  and  said — "  You 
have  nearly  an  hour.  Sit  still.  I  have  something  here 
that  will  do  you  good.  Eaten  anything  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  ...  I  had  my  lunch." 

"  Sandwich,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  And  a  glass  of  milk — oh  !  I'm  not  hungry  ...  I  am 
stuck  in  the  mud  and  can't  get  clear."  He  was  a  boy  in 
phrase  once  more.  "  Please  don't  bother  about  tucker, 
sir.  ...  I  couldn't  eat  ...  I  couldn't.  ..." 

"  You  will  eat  what  you  can,  and  you  will  drink  this," 
Worsdale  answered,  pouring  out  whisky  and  adding 
mineral.  "  Take  a  sip  first  and  gae  canny,  my  boy,  gae 
canny  and  tell  me,  while  ye  eat,"  he  thundered  out, 
"what  precisely  is  the  matter  with  Mrs.  O'Hagan,  what 


THE  MEANING  OF  IT  111 

I  can  do  ta  help  you,"  he  stood,  red-faced,  to  enforce  his 
words,  "  an'  why  ye're  daunderin'  aboot  town  when  ye 
tell  me  ye  have  a  sick  wife  at  home.  ..." 

He  sat  again  in  his  chair  and  looked  under  his  brows  at 
O'Hagan  as  he  attacked  the  sandwiches. 

"  The  wife's  ill,  sir,"  O'Hagan  repeated,  gulped  and  sat 
still.  "  There's  going  to  be  a  baby,"  he  added,  a  queer 
note  in  his  voice  ;  "  and  we're  down  to  ten  shillings  or  so 
between  us  ...  there's  a  man  in  the  house  to  see  we 
don't  get  rid  of  our  things  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  oh,  well  !  "  he 
added,  after  a  pause,  "I  came  to  town  to  get  some  money 
from  a  chap  who  lends.  ..." 

"  Jew  ?      Worsdale  inserted. 

*'  I  expect  so.  He  calls  himself  Horton  Marshland  &  Co. 
.  .  .  but  he  won't  part.  The  security  doesn't  seem  good 
enough — so  I'm  going  back.  ..." 

"  Go  on  eating,"  Worsdale  ordered.  "  How  much  was 
the  man  to  lend  you  ?  " 

"  Fifty  pounds." 

"  What  security  ?  " 

"  My  furniture  and  fixings,  sir." 

"A  bill  of  sale,  eh  ?  Take  another  pull  at  that  whisky." 
Worsdale  rose  and  crossed  to  a  bureau,  which  he  opened  : 
"  Never  touch  a  bill  of  sale,  my  boy,"  he  said,  over  his 
shoulder.  "  An  honest  man  will  not  ask  it  as  security, 
because  " — he  drew  out  a  cheque  book  and  commenced  to 
write — "  if  the  interest  is^unpaid  it  means  that  the  lender 
can — turn — the — borrower — into  the  street  and  sell  every 
stick."  He  spoke  slowly  as  he  wrote.  And  when  he  had 
finished  he  came  back  and  tapped  O'Hagan  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  Come  to  me,"  he  said  lightly,  "  if  you  want  any  more. 
Don't  go  to  money-lenders.  They  would  suck  blood  out 
of  a  stone."  He  tapped  more  vigorously  and  pushed  the 
cheque  under  O'Hagan's  hand.  "  Here — take  this,"  he 
said,  "  and  get  that  little  woman  of  yours  well  again.  Get 
her  hearty.  Kick  that  damned  man  out  of  your  house  and 
— and  come  and  tell  me  how  you  get  on.  ..." 

O'Hagan  shuffled  in  his  chair.  He  seemed  unable  to 
reply.  He  looked  up  and  opened  his  lips  to  speak — then 
suddenly  leaned  forward,  his  face  buried  on  his  arms,  his 
shoulders  shaking. 

Worsdale  drew  back.  He  looked  very  stern,  very  cold, 
very  still.  There  were  lines  over  his  nose  which  rarely 


112  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

appeared.  He  crossed  to  the  fire  and  stood  looking  into  it. 
Perhaps  he  saw  in  the  red  glow  pictures  of  his  youth, 
pictures  which  told  him  why  he  had  sympathy  with  this 
boy,  why  he  had  no  boy  of  his  own  to  father  and  prop  on 
his  way  through  life  ...  or  perhaps  it  was  just  pleasure 
he  felt  at  being  able  to  help  one  so  oppressed. 

Several  minutes  passed.  The  sounds  behind  him  grew 
more  subdued.  He  half  glanced  round  and  saw  O'Hagan 
staring  at  the  cheque — then  in  a  great  hurry  busied  himself 
stirring  the  fire. 

The  noise  he  made  completed  O'Hagan's  cure.  He 
rose  from  his  crouching  attitude,  stood  up,  and  came  close 
to  his  old  commander. 

"  I  want  to  thank  you,  sir,"  he  blurted,  "  but,  for  the 
life  of  me,  I  don't  know  how  ..." 

"  Don't,"  said  Worsdale  over  his  shoulder. 

"  To  begin  with,  you've  made  it  a  hundred,"  O'Hagan 
went  on  unheeding,  "  and  fifty  would  have  seen  us 
through.  .  .  ." 

"  That  is  my  affair,"  said  the  great  little  man,  but 
without  braggadocio. 

"  But — but  how  am  I  to  repay  it  ?  "  O'Hagan  questioned, 
flushed  and  uneasy  in  spite  of  the  relief  he  felt. 

"  Have  I  asked  you  to  put  a  date  to  it  ?  Give  me  an 
I.O.U.  if  it  eases  your  conscience  .  .  .  but  I  warn  you  I 
shall  destroy  it  as  soon  as  you  are  gone  from  the  room." 

"  You  are  so  kind  to  me,"  O'Hagan  faltered,  "  that  I 
am  at  my  wits'  end  .  .  .  but,  you  see,  it's  a  hundred,  and 
fifty  would  have  been  enough.  .  .  ." 

"  If  I  chose  to  make  it  a  hundred,  sir,  what  the  devil 
has  that  to  do  with  you  ?  It's  your  wife  I'm  considering." 
He  turned  and  faced  him,  to  all  appearance  wrathful, 
ready  to  jump  on  him.  "  Go  home  and  get  her  well,"  he 
shot  out,  "  and  if  that  is  not  enough  to  pull  her  round, 
come  to  me  and  say  so  like  a  man." 

O'Hagan  took  him  at  his  word.     "  I  will,"  he  said. 

"  That's  all  I  ask,  my  boy.  Good-night."  He  ruffled 
his  hair  with  the  gesture  O'Hagan  knew.  "  I'm  more 
sorry  to-night  that  you  left  us,"  he  said,  "  than  for  any- 
thing that  I  can  remember  .  .  .  now  get  away  to  your 
train." 

When  Hammond  rejoined  his  friend  he  discovered  him 
marching  up  and  down  the  room,  his  gaze  bent  on  the 
carpet,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him.  He  no  longer 


THE  MEANING  OF  IT  113 

smoked,  but  glanced  up  with  a  jerk  which  suggested 
complete  immersion. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  was  like  to  forget  one 
friend  in  another.  Draw  up — draw  up  to  the  fire.  Why 
did  ye  run  away  ?  Did  ye  see  the  picture  ?  Not  much 
to  look  at — now,  must  have  been  fine,  though,  when  he 
painted  it  ...  come  in  to  the  fire  .  .  .  come  in  and 
bear  with  me  awhile — whiles  I  talk.  .  .  .  Man  !  he  was 
hungry.  He  eat  like  a  wolf  I  tell  you.  .  .  .  Eat  and  said 
he  didn't  want  anything  .  .  .  had  had  his  lunch — a  wee 
bun  o'  sorts  an'  a  glass  of  milk  !  Him  !  And  he  wants 
a  beefsteak  if  ever  man  wanted  it.  ...  Hoots  !  sit  doon 
— sit  doon,  there'a  good  fellow,  and  concoct  some  way  o' 
getting  him  whitewashed " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  that — only  I  called  it  clearing  him," 
Hammond  put  in. 

"  Ca'  it  what  ye  like — but  make  it  effective  .  .  .  make 
it  a  pairmanency — make  it  so  that  no  magistrate  body 
can  take  the  bread  out  of  a  British  shipmaster's  mouth  by 
suspending  him.  ..." 

"  It  will  be  difficult — and  with  the  House  occupied 
year  in  and  year  out  with  Ireland.  .  .  ." 

"  We  have  ta  find  a  way,"  Worsdale  said  plainly.  "  If 
I  petition  the  President  o'  the  Board  o'  Trade  myself  .  .  . 
if  I  am  compelled  to  carry  it  tae  the  King's  ear  privately,  I 
shall  do  it — for  I  look  upon  it  as  my  plain  duty  .  .  . 
nothing  less.  .  .  . 

"  This  young  fool  is  only  one  of  many.  I  have  known 
cases  where  the  man  had  less  than  nothing  a  year — when 
he  had  tae  pay  interest,  in  other  words,  on  the  money  he 
borrowit  tae  defend  himself  and  to  pay  his  share  of  the 

costs interest  out  of  nothing  ;  for  he  dropped — 

starved  and  went  ta  hell  out  West.  Never  another  billet 
did  he  get  at  sea  and  the  jobs  he  was  able  tae  do  just 
haundered  him — haundered  him.  .  .  ." 

"  I  see  the  point — but  there  must  be  a  judge  of  sorts. 
What  about  courts  ruled  by  a  stipendiary  ?  ' ' 

"  Here  and  there  may  be  a  good  one,"  Worsdale  answered 
at  once.  "  I  have  knowledge  of  one,  at  all  events,  who  is 
straight  and  outspoken  in  his  condemnation  of  a  certain 
class  of  shipowner ;  but  we  want  to  put  it  on  a  different 
plane.  We  want  to  take  it  oot  of  the  hands  of  courts 
which  deal  wi'  the  drunk  and  the  disorderly.  We  want  to 
lift  the  men  in  the  Merchant  Service,  not  to  bludgeon 

B.F.  I 


114  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

them  ;  we  want  to  make  them  nearer  the  level  of  the  officers 
in  His  Majesty's  Service,  not  drum  them  into  the  gutter ; 
because,  forsooth,  one  or  the  other  of  them  has  committed 
an  error  of  judgment  and  put  his  ship  on  the  rocks.  .  .  . 
"  You  want  to  make  your  officer  feel  that  he  is  treated 
as  a  man,  not  as  a  creeminal ;  and  if  you  must  punish  him, 
punish  him  in  some  way  which  will  not  drive  him  headlong 
tae  the  devil.  .  .  .  Hoots  I  "  said  Worsdale  with  point  and 
emphasis,  "  the  only  difference  there  is  to-day  between  a 
trial  for  a  criminal  offence  and  an  inquiry  into  the  cause 
of  the  loss  of  a  ship  at  sea,  is,  that  you  feed  and  clothe 
the  criminal  you  have  captured  and  imprisoned,  and  you 
condemn  ta  starvation  the  officer  you  have  found  guilty  o' 
an  error  o'  judgment.  .  .  ." 

"  But  surely  a  man  condemned  as  you  say,  can  even 
now  appeal  .  .  ." 

"  Appeal !  An'  whaur's  the  money  for  an  appeal  ta  come 
from,  Stephen  Hammond  ?  Think  it  oot  .  .  .  what  does 
it  cost  ?  I'll  want  to  know  for  I'm  thinkin'  o'  putting  yon 
young  fool  hi  your  hands  to  clear  .  .  .  Hoo  can  he  appeal  ? 
Here's  a  concrete  case.  He's  blistered  by  this  damned 
business.  Teegether,  he  tells  me,  his  an'  his  wife's 
resources  amount  now,  ta  seventy-five  pounds  per  annum, 
an'  the  rent  and  taxes  due  on  his  house  run  to  nearly 
fifty  .  .  . 

"  Appeal !  "  Worsdale  leaned  forward  and  stirred  the 
fire — "how  can  he  appeal  ?  " 

"  In  forma  pauperis — perhaps  it  would  be  possible." 
"  How  many  would  .  .  .  has  it  ever  been  done  ?  Man  ! 
these  men  are  sailors,"  was  Worsdale's  scathing  comment. 
Hammond  was  content  to  allow  him  to  talk,  as  he  would 
not  do  unless  things  were  made  easy  for  him. 

"  Sailors  !  "  he  ejaculated  again,  "  and  your  court  treats 
him  as  a  criminal  .  .  .  ou  aye  !  I  know,  I  know.  I 
haven't  been  in  command  for  forty  years  without  lairning 
a  little  here  an'  awa'  aside  my  profession.  Sit  ye  still, 
Stephen  Hammond,  whiles  I  tell  ye  how  it  appears  to 
me — an  old  sailor,  mind — an  old  sailor  wha's  not  ashamed 
of  his  calling, 

"  I  want  you  to  follow  my  argument.  I  said  you  fed 
your  criminal  and  you  starved  your  officer — well,  is  it 
not  so  ?  Do  you  not  take  your  prisoner,  a  malefactor 
mind,  and  lodge  and  feed  him  at  the  nation's  expense — " 
he  had  returned  to  his  sarcastic  intonation,  to  his  finer 


THE  MEANING  OF  IT  115 

manner  for  a  moment.  "  If  he  proves  tractable  he  is 
put  in  touch  with  a  library,  perhaps  with  a  billiard  room, 
you  begin  to  teach  him  a  trade ;  but  the  officer  who  has 
lost  his  ship  you  do  not  put  away.  You  give  him  his 
freedom  ;  but  you  take  away  from  him  his  certificate — 
the  parchment  record  of  his  capacity  which  he  has  earned 
by  sweat  and  tears,  and  with  it  you  take  away  his  means 
of  existence  .  .  . 

"  Oh  !  he  is  free  as  the  air,  my  friend,  and  may  live 
on  it.  He  is  free  as  any  hooligan  of  the  streets  and  may 
live  in  the  same  fashion.  After  rubbing  shoulders  with 
criminals  in  the  court  where  his  case  was  heard  he  is 
debarred  access  to  the  porridge  and  skilly  of  the  jail. 
Instead  of  being  helped  to  learn  a  trade  you  definitely 
take  from  him  the  means  of  prosecuting  the  only  one  he 
knows.  During  the  expiation  of  his  fault,  or  crime,  or 
stupidity — take  it  as  you  will — he  is  condemned  to  a  pro- 
cess of  slow  starvation,  while  the  criminal  is  lodged  and 
fed  and  kept  warm.  And  that,  if  you  will  allow  me  to 
say  so,  is  the  sole  difference  between  a  trial  for  a  criminal 
offence,  and  an  inquiry  ..." 

"  I  agree  it's  pretty  rotten,"  Hammond  admitted  as 
Worsdale  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "  I  confess  I  haven't 
considered  it  quite  from  that  point  of  view." 

"  Who  has — until  it  touches  him  ?  "  Worsdale  asked. 

"  It  has  never  touched  you,"  Hammond  smiled. 

"  No — but  it  touched  my  brother  long  ago  .  .  .  and 
it  finished  him.  Let  it  go  at  that.  Think  over  what  I 
have  said  to  you — and  remember  that  young  fool  who  was 
here  just  now  is  hit  pretty  hard.  He  is  on  the  Black  List. 
I  don't  think  he  knows  quite  what  that  means  yet  .  .  . 
and  his  wife  is  to  put  a  baby  in  his  arms  sometime  soon. 
And — beyond  and  ahead  of  all  that — I  want  you  to 
remember  he's  a  Celt," 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  VALLEY   OF   THE   SHADOW 

DENIS  O'HAGAN  came  down  the  path  that  night  with 
a  "  Coo-ee  1  "  so  blithe  that  Lucy,  had  she  been  up  to 
greet  him,  would  have  run  to  his  arms ;  but  now  the 
upstairs  windows  were  lighted,  the  blinds  drawn,  and 
O'Hagan  saw  shadows  moving  within  her  room.  He 
wondered  why. 

He  crossed  the  tiled  pathway  leading  to  his  house  on 
tiptoe,  and  faced  the  opening  door  with  a  new  terror 
thrilling  him.  What  was  wrong  ?  For  the  moment 
money  troubles  had  ceased  to  weigh  him  down.  During 
his  journey  he  had  planned  the  removal  of  that  individual 
who  oppressed  them  and  lived  on  them.  He  had  dozed, 
out  of  sheer  weariness,  in  the  new  security  granted  him 
by  the  immense  goodness  of  his  old  commander.  Nearly 
he  had  slept ;  but  the  excitement  he  found  in  picturing 
Lucy's  face  when  he  told  her  his  news,  or  she  had  at  last 
successfully  guessed,  kept  him  awake. 

And  now  what  had  happened  ?  He  faced  a  dark 
passage  and  groped  towards  the  drawing-room  door. 
Had  the  beasts  cleared  him  out  ?  Had  they  dared  to 
touch  his  things  during  his  absence  ?  He  felt  tigerish  as 
the  question  passed.  Deep  in  his  breast  stirred  the 
lessons  he  had  learned  as  a  boy  at  sea.  Lessons  of  swift 
reprisal,  stern  punishment — the  satisfactory  thrill  of 
delivering  a  knock-down  blow  which  is  efficient.  His 
teeth  were  clenched  as  he  found  the  handle  and  opened 
the  door.  Darkness  confronted  him.  He  sought  for 
a  match  and  something  stirred  over  there  by  the  fireless 
grate.  His  nerves  were  on  edge,  but  he  controlled  himself 
to  say  sternly — "  Who  is  there  ?  "  and  at  the  same 
moment  struck  a  match. 

Mrs.  Portland  Lodge,  as  they  called  her  in  the  abandon 
of  youth,  rose  as  he  glared  under  the  lighted  match. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  smiled.  "  I'm  afraid  I  dozed — 
an!  I  really  did  mean  to  keep  awake  till  you  came  ..." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW          117 

"  It's  awfully  good  of  you  to — to  say  so,"  Denis  said, 
because  it  was  obvious  she  expected  some  reply,  "  but 
if  you  would't  mind,"  he  reached  up  and  lighted  the  gas, 
"  telling  me  what  has  happened,  I  shall  be  ...  Well. 
you  see  I  have  just  got  back  from  a  day  in  town  and  I 
left  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  we  got  rid  of  him,"  said  Mrs.  Sykes  with  a  little 
gleam  of  delight.  "  I  'appened  to  call,  you  see,  to  ask 
how  your  good  lady  was  gettin'  on  and  I  heard  about  your 
trouble." 

She  referred  to  the  man  in  possession  with  this  phrase. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  take  an  interest  in  our 
worries,"  O'Hagan  said  with  what  patience  he  could 
assume. 

"  Oh,  we  couldn't  help  not  takin'  an  interest,"  Mrs. 
Sykes  gave  back,  "  knowin'  what  was  goin'  to  'appen  so 
soon  .  .  .  an'  knowin'  as  we  were  bound  to,  my  'usband 
being  a  pilot  as  you  remember  I'm  sure,  of  the  way  they 
served  you  at  that  inquiry  after  you  lost  your  ship. 
So  I  says  to  William  this  morning — not  long  after  you 
went  by  Portland  Lodge,  I'm  goin'  in  to  The  Deodars, 
presently.  I  felt  I  must  .  .  .  she'll  be  all  alone  again 
to-day  .  .  .  an'  I'm  sure,  William,  I  said,  it  can't  be 
long  .  .  .  an'  it's  lucky  I  did,  captain,  very  lucky  ..." 

O'Hagan  listened  quaking.  Mrs.  Sykes  was  bustling 
and  competent,  a  woman  of  many  experiences  and  giant 
girth  ;  but  with  kind  eyes  and  a  tender  heart  somewhere 
amidst  the  adipose  with  which  she  was  clothed. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Sykes,  "  I  see  in  a  minute  what 
was  goin'  to  'appen — an'  I  sent  round  to  Doctor  Marsden 
an'  fetched  the  nurse  an'  got  it  all  in  readiness  for  whatever 
might  'appen,"  it  sounded  like  the  arrival  of  a  cyclone 
in  O'Hagan's  ears.  He  pictured  instantly  a  valorous 
bustling,  strange  to  consider  in  the  presence  of  so  large 
a  person ;  but  the  image  failed  quickly.  He  found 
himself  asking  with  a  very  hushed  voice  where  Mrs. 
O'Hagan  was,  and  whether  it  would  be  possible  to  see  her. 
This  pointed,  although  it  was  not  his  belief,  to  the  sugges- 
tion that  Mrs.  Portland  Lodge  was  her  rightful  guardian. 

"  Where  ?  "  echoed  the  lady,  beaming  massively, 
"  oh,  she's  in  bed  now  ;  she's  been  up  and  about  till  quite 
late,  an'  the  doctor's  been  in  twice  to-day  and  will  be 
stayin',  I  expect  ...  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  havin' 
taken  so  much  upon  me — but  I  couldn't  see  all  your 


118  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

trouble  an'  this  comin'  on  an'  sit  still.  I  don't  like  inter- 
ferin'  Captain — nor  doesn't  William  ;  but  there  are  times 
when  .  .  .  ." 

O'Hagan  reached  out  and  took  her  hand — "  Mind  ?  " 
he  said  in  that  quiet  voice  he  scarcely  knew  as  his  own, 
"  indeed  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  and  I  thank  you 
with  all  my  heart.  I  had  to  go  to  London,  you  see, 
because.  ..."  He  halted  unable  to  explain  exactly  why 
he  had  found  it  necessary  to  go  at  such  a  moment.  "  Of 
course,"  he  added,  "  if  I  had  foreseen  this  I  should  have 
tried  to  get  back  earlier." 

**  The  worse  part  was  'ow  to  get  rid  of  that  man  .  .  . 
you  don't  mind  me  tellin'  you,  but  I'd  rather  tell  you 
myself  I  knew,  than  let  you  think  it  dropped  from 
heaven  ;  or  the  county  councillors  which  owns  the  water 
works  has  let  it  pass.  No  such  thing  'appened.  What 
did  'appen  made  me  burn.  It  was  just  after  I  came  back 
with  the  nurse  and  I  went  to  the  window  to  look  out,  and 
there's  a  group  o'  them  lazy  good-fer-nothings  as  call 
themselves  workmen — municipal  workmen  if  you  please, 
lighting  their  pipes  and  preparin'  to  cut  off  your 
supply. 

"  I  went  down  to  them  an'  called  for  the  foreman — a 
civil  spoken  man  he  was  I  will  say — an'  I  said  to, him 
'  You  dare  cut  the  supply  an'  I'll  summons  you.'  '  I've 
got  to,  it's  my  order,'  he  says,  an'  he  outs  with  his  paper 
in  proof.  '  Never  you  mind  that,'  says  I,  but  just  go 
back  to  your  office  an'  tell  them  they  mustn't  cut  off  the 
supply.  Say  I  dare  them  to  do  it  seein'  a  baby  will  be 
born  perhaps  to-night — an'  water  we  must  'ave.'  '  Tell 
them,  I  says,  '  that  if  that  isn't  good  enough  for  them, 
to  send  their  bill  in  to  me  and  I  will  pay  it  seein'  Captain 
O'Hagan  had  been  called  to  London  and  wouldn  t  be 
back  in  time  to  attend  to  it  ...  and  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Sykes  with  visible  trepidation,  "  is  what  I  did  ...  I  do 
'ope  you  don't  mind  !  ' 

Mind  !     O'Hagan  nearly  leaped. 

He  scarcely  knew  whether  to  laugh  or  cry.  He  was 
afflicted  by  a  blend  of  the  two  forces  at  the  moment ; 
but  above  it  and  beyond  it  was  his  desire  to  escape  this 
kind  soul's  accurate  descriptions  of  events  and  see  Lucy 
while  there  remained  time. 

"  Mind  ?  "  he  gave  rein  to  his  thought.  "  You  have 
probably  saved  her  life  and  me  from  the  hangman, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW    119 

Why,  if  they  had  cut  us  off  I  should  have  cut  them 
dead.  ..." 

Mrs.  Portland  Lodge  lifted  her  hands  and  her  eyes 
together — "  Oh !  I  don't  think  you  quite  mean  that," 
she  whispered.  "  Oh  that  would  be  dreadful — I  don't 
believe  you  mean  it ' 

"  I  mean,  Mrs.  Portland — Mrs.  Sykes,  I  should  say, 
that  you  are  the  kindest  and  most  considerate  person  I 
know  and  I  should  like  to  thank  you.  ..." 

The  lady's  face  showed  smiling  eyes  and  lips  which  more 
than  smiled — "  Why,"  she  asked,  "  did  you  call  me 
that  ?  " 

"  Which  ?  "  he  questioned,  conscious  that  he  had 
slipped  "  person  "  in  a  most  deadly  fashion. 

"  Mrs.  Portland,"  she  answered. 

"  Oh  that !  Well,  you  see,"  he  explained  twinkling, 
"  when  we  came  here  first  we  didn't  know  your  name  and 
as  we  had  to  distinguish  you  from  other  .  .  .  that  is  from 
others,  we  called  you  Mrs.  Portland  Lodge.  I  hope  you 
don't  mind  ?  "  he  added — the  phrase  recurring  unasked. 

Mrs.  Sykes  tried  it  in  several  intonations  and  decided 
it  wasn't  half  bad.  It  was  toney,  she  considered  on 
second  thoughts.  It  was  rather  like  the  name  of  one  of 
those  gentlemen  that  are  always  writing  in  the  papers 
where  we  die  when  we  go  to,  or,  she  meant  to  say,  where 
we  go  to  when  we  die.  She  rather  liked  it  ...  and 
Sykes  wasn't  the  name  she  would  have  chosen  if  she  could 
have  altered  it. 

Meanwhile  O'Hagan  tried  to  look  interested,  or  amused, 
as  the  lady's  speech  seemed  to  require ;  while  in  his 
heart  he  prayed  the  earth  might  open  and  swallow  her — - 
gently  of  course. 

When  therefore  Mrs.  Portland  Lodge  appeared  to  be 
running  down,  O'Hagan  sailed  into  the  silence  with  stun' 
sails  set,  as  he  expressed  it,  and  begged  to  know  whether 
he  might  go  to  his  wife's  room 

"  Go  ?  said  Mrs.  Sykes,  "  of  course,  if  nurse  who's 
in  charge,  says  come  in.  I  should  advise  you  to  do  so 
pretty  soon  as  the  doctor  hoped  to  be  back  by  twelve 
and  .  .  .  my  heart !  "  Mrs.  Sykes  struck  the  casing 
with  the  words,  "  if  it  isn't  nearly  that  already.  .  .  . 
And  I've  been  keeping  you  all  this  time.  ...  I  hope 
you  don't  mind — but  1 11  go  'ome  now  an'  try  to  get  some 
sleep,"  she  sighed.  "  Sykes  went  away  down  Channel 


120  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

this  mornin'  an'  won't  be  back  for  a  week  so  we're  neigh- 
bours in  affliction.  .  .  .  Good-night,  captain.  No — 
don't  come  out.  I'll  just  run  in  as  I  am  .  .  .  an'  to- 
morrow I  hope  it'll  be  all  over.  .  .  .  Good-night.  .  .  ." 

O'Hagan  snapped  the  lock  with  what  restraint  he 
could  muster,  pulled  off  his  boots  and  crept  to  the  upstairs 
landing.  He  listened,  standing  nearly  breathless.  With 
a  gulp  he  decided  there  was  no  sound  and  ventured  to 
tap  very  lightly  on  the  door. 

The  nurse  appeared  in  a  newly  starched  gown  which 
rustled  like  a  breeze.  She  saw  O'Hagan  and  nodded — 
with  the  aloofness  of  those  whose  function  it  is  to  attend 
on  sickness. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  tentatively,  "  you  may  come  in  for  a 
minute — but  you  mustn't  excite  her — only  a  very  short 
visit  please.  ..." 

Then  O'Hagan  found  the  way  unbarred  and  caught 
sight  of  flushed  cheeks  and  very  bright  eyes,  of  two  hands 
moving  out  to  greet  him  and  he  slipped  on  his  knees  at 
the  bedside. 

"  My  Mem-sahib  !  "   he  whispered,  but  got  no  farther. 
"  The  valley  of  the  shadow,  dear  dearest,"  she  made 
answer. 

For  a  long  minute  they  remained  thus,  hands  clasped, 
Denis  bowed  over  them.  But  he  did  not  speak,  nor  did 
Lucy — fear,  dread,  all  anxiety  had  gone  out  of  her  eyes 
on  his  coming.  No  word  he  could  have  spoken  would 
have  helped  her  more  at  this  moment  than  the  one 
loving  pet-name  he  found  her.  Peace  stood  between 
them ;  the  eternal  peace  of  faith  and  love  and  trust. 
Youth  buoyed  them.  No  shadows  lurked — only  memo- 
ries made  play,  and  they  were  of  love  and  hope  and 
youth. 

He  looked  up  conscious  of  the  flying  minutes  and 
discovered  her  eyes  intent  on  meeting  his — she  flushed 
slightly.  .  .  . 

"  I  knew  I  could,"  she  whispered. 
"  Could  what  ?  " 

"  Make  you  look  up,  oh  dearest." 
He  rubbed  his  cheek  on  her  hands  with  the  mute  anguish 
of  a  dog  sorrowing  over  his  master. 

"  I  am  so  thankful  you  were  able  to  stay,"  she  said 

in  his  ear.      "  I 1  don't  think  I  could — have — lived 

through  it if  you  had  been  at  sea." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW          121 

"  I  am  thankful  to  be  here,"  he  answered  with  his  lips, 
and  remained  feasting  his  eyes. 

"  You  look  like  a  child  yourself,"  he  added,  after  a 
pause. 

She  gave  him  the  old,  shy  look  of  gladness  which  no 
other  soul  had  seen. 

He  leaned  nearer  presently  and  whispered — 

"  You  mustn't  bother  about  the — the  money,  Mem- 
sahib.  I've  managed  it  ...  we  shall  be  quite  flush." 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  her  eyes  at  peace. 

"  I  wasn't  worrying,  dear  dearest.  I  knew  it  would  be 
all  right  if  we  waited." 

Then  her  face  grew  pale,  she  closed  her  eyes  and  the 
nurse  bent  over  him,  touching  his  shoulder. 

"  If  you  please,"  she  admonished. 

He  rose  and  was  about  to  obey,  then  with  a  swift  turn 
he  bent  down. 

"  I  must  kiss  you,  Mem-sahib,"  he  half  sobbed  out. 

"  Dear  dearest,"  she  answered,  meeting  him,  "  I  shall 
be  so  comfy  presently." 

Then  he  found  himself  outside  the  door,  fumbling  in  a 
partially  lighted  passage ;  his  head  full  of  half -formed 
theories,  doubts — the  mutinous  vapourings  of  one  uncer- 
tain of  his  quality.  He  was  jealous  of  the  gate  he  had 
passed ;  of  the  fact  indeed,  that  he  no  longer  ranked 
first  in  her  necessity.  He  wondered  what  he  must  do. 

Presently  he  discovered  he  stood  again  in  the  drawing- 
room.  He  saw  the  chair  which  had  been  occupied  by 
Mrs.  Portland  Lodge.  He  shook  up  the  cushions  wonder- 
ing where  she  had  gone.  The  room  was  full  of  strange 
whisperings.  He  listened  for  sounds  and  caught  from 
time  to  time  the  thud  of  feet  overhead.  The  hour  was 
ripe  with  terror.  He  felt  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
the  desire  for  companionship — someone  who  could  talk, 
something  to  relieve  the  tension.  Then  he  discovered  the 
fire  had  not  yet  been  lighted,  and  went  on  his  knees  to 
rectify  the  omission. 

And  while  it  crackled  under  his  guidance  there  came  a 
knock  at  the  window ;  a  light  tap  which  made  him  look 
up.  He  rose  at  once,  and  hurried  to  the  front  door. 
Doctor  Marsden  entered  as  he  opened  it.  He  carried  a 
case  which  gave  O'Hagan  a  new  lease  of  anguish  ;  but  he 
only  said  genially — 

"  You've  got  back,  then — I  am  glad,  although,  really 


122  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  go  away  again,  or  go  to 
bed." 

"  Go  away  ...  go  to  bed  ?  Good  Lord  !  "  O'Hagan 
gasped,  unable  to  get  the  perspective. 

Doctor  Marsden  viewed  him  with  that  searching  glance 
which,  from  another  man,  would  have  seemed  insulting. 

"  Hum  !  "  he  said.  "  I  don't  suppose  you  will  do  it — 
but  bed,  twelve  solid  hours  of  it,  would  do  you  more  good 
than  anything  else  I  know  of.  Try  it." 

He  took  off  his  overcoat  and  crossed  to  the  fire,  where  he 
stood  warming  his  back. 

"  I  couldn't  sleep  if  I  did,"  said  O'Hagan.  "  Could 
you  ?  " 

"  Rather." 

O'Hagan  looked  puzzled.  In  spite  of  his  knowledge  of 
sickness  and  his  acquaintance  with  operations  as  con- 
ducted on  board  ship,  he  was  amazed  at  the  cool  attitude 
displayed  now  that  Lucy  was  the  patient.  And  he  was 
going  to  trust  her  to  this  man's  hands.  Good  Lord  ! 
He  swayed  suddenly  as  he  confronted  the  proposition. 

Then  Marsden  came  nearer  and  said — 

"  This  won't  do.  Come  now — when  did  you  have 
dinner  ?  " 

"  I  didn't,"  said  O'Hagan  simply.  "  Faith  !  I  hadn't 
the  time." 

"  Yes — yes — that's  all  very  well ;  but  when  a  man  has 
a  wife  to  look  after  it  is  his  duty  to  make  time.  If  you 
don't  stoke  up,  at  sea,  the  fires  go  out  and  the  steam 
drops.  Perhaps  something  else  drops,  too.  You  will  be 
in  the  same  case  if  you  don't  stoke  up,  but  insist  on  walk- 
ing and  worrying  into  the  bargain." 

"  I  know,"  said  O'Hagan. 

"  Of  course  you  know — but  why  don't  you  act  on  your 
knowledge  ?  " 

"  If  I  were  to  tell  you  exactly  what  I  have  gone  through 
to-day,  doctor,  you  would  call  me  a  fool." 

"  Very  likely." 

"Then  I'll  just  hould  me  whisht!"  said  O'Hagan. 
"  But  I  couldn't  eat  now.  I  had  a  good  snack  awhile 
ago — er — what  about  my  wife  .  .  .  won't  you  go  up  and 
see  her  ?  " 

Marsden  had  his  measure.  He  saw  that  this  thought 
obsessed  him  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else,  and  decided  to 
act  upon  it. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW    123 

"  Look  here,"  he  said.  "  If  you  will  go  to  bed  and 
take  what  I  give  you,  I  will  go  up  and  see  Mrs.  O'Hagan 
at  once.  Is  it  a  bargain  ?  " 

Denis  looked  swiftly  under  his  brows  and  said — 

"  Opiate  ?  " 

"  No— sedative." 

"  I  don't  like  them." 

"  Then  I  remain  here." 

O'Hagan  took  this  in,  after  a  puzzled  frown.  He  was 
very  near  collapse,  but  he  did  not  know  it.  He  was 
aware  only  of  an  immense  mental  stress,  an  activity  of 
thought  which  refused  to  be  silenced  ;  but  so  great  was 
his  desire  to  see  the  doctor  mounting  the  stairs  that  he 
said — 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  you  are  right,  but  I  shan't  turn  in.  I 
will  lie  down  here  with  a  rug,  if  you  like — but  you  will  go 
up,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  At  once." 

O'Hagan  took  off  his  coat,  found  a  rug,  and  halted  by 
the  sofa. 

"  Right,"  he  said.    "  Give  me  the  poison." 

Then  Marsden  took  a  phial  from  his  case  and  adminis- 
tered sufficient  as  he  thought  to  compel  sleep.  O'Hagan 
lay  down,  saying,  with  a  curious  aloofness — "  Be  good  to 
her,  for  God's  sake — and  give  me  a  shake  if  you  want  me. 
Don't  let  me  sleep  if  ...  if " 

*'  My  dear  man,"  Marsden  said,  with  cooing  geniality, 
"  you  leave  that  to  me.  Don't  bother  about  anything. 
Your  wife  is  wonderful.  You  are  giving  me  infinitely 
more  trouble  than  she  will — go  to  sleep." 

He  turned  to  pick  up  his  case,  and  vanished  without 
further  words. 

O'Hagan  lay  very  still.  He  had  no  intention  of  going 
to  sleep.  He  had  on  the  contrary  a  whole-souled  inten- 
tion of  keeping  awake.  When  you  fight  sleep  some  curious 
effects  are  possible.  If  you  elect  to  fight  a  mesmerist,  in 
all  probability,  if  your  will  be  strong,  you  will  succeed  in 
evading  his  influence ;  but  with  a  sedative  the  case  is 
different.  With  time  it  will  assert  ascendency — but  the 
interval  is  prolific  of  encounter.  O'Hagan  once  had 
broken  a  dentist's  chair  while  under  the  soothing  influence 
of  gas.  If  he  had  struck  the  dentist  instead  of  the  chair, 
very  possibly  a  funeral  would  have  ensued. 

And  now  he  had  no  intention  of  giving  way  to  sleep. 


124  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

How  could  he  sleep  while  Lucy  was  tortured — that  is  how 
he  put  it  mentally — and  he  saw  visions  as  a  result. 
Waking  visions  which  bordered  one  moment  on  ease  and 
comfort  and  a  settled  estate ;  sleepy  visions  the  next 
which  conjured  the  little  pits  prepared,  as  in  Dante's 
"  Purgatorio,"  for  those  unworthy  of  heaven.  He  won- 
dered if  that  would  be  his  lot,  and  watching  saw  through 
green  fumes  dim  legs  sticking  out  of  the  pits  and  wriggling 
in  air.  The  head  and  trunk  of  the  poor  devils  he  discovered 
were  buried  in  the  pits  from  which  puffs  of  sulphurous 
smoke  slowly  pulsed. 

Somehow  he  seemed  to  have  become  involved  with 
primitive  notions  of  punishment  meted  out  to  unbelievers 
by  a  Beneficent  Ruler  of  mankind.  Against  that  he 
rebelled,  anathematising  the  idea  of  torture.  Then  again 
he  lay  drowsily  champing  the  bit  of  content,  talking  with 
Lucy.  He  gathered  energy  and  chucked  a  kiddy — quite 
a  pukka  little  chap  he  was  too — under  the  chin  and  asked 
him  where  the  dickens  he  supposed  daddy  was  going  to 
find  a  couple  of  hundred  a  year  to  spend  on  his  education. 
And  the  boy  grinned,  became  ape-like  and  changed  into  a 
centipede  which  lay  under  Lucy's  pillow,  ready  to  sting. 

A  bulgy-eyed,  monstrous  centipede  which  grew  in  size 
until  it  became  the  pillow  and  Lucy  could  not  by  any  chance 
escape  it.  O'Hagan  lunged  out  at  this,  dealing  a  swift 
rain  of  blows  which  left  him  on  the  floor — and  the  pillow 
now  grown  past  all  belief,  lying  upon  him. 

He  tried  to  push  it  off,  and  it  became  more  large.  He 
forced  it  to  the  floor,  but  it  rolled  back  to  smother  him. 
He  strained,  lying  nearly  full  length,  his  foot  against  the 
skirting,  to  push  the  thing  away  ;  but  directly  he  released 
the  pressure  in  the  smallest  degree,  the  thing  rolled  back 
upon  him. 

It  fought  now  in  its  lumbering  inert  way  for  mastery. 
It  took  new  weapons  for  the  encounter  and  came  at  him 
armed  with  horns  and  immense  eyes  which  threw  a  gleam 
of  green  light  far  out  into  the  darkness.  The  lights 
became  white.  They  moved  with  the  precision  of  search- 
lights thrown  by  the  forts  on  the  Solent  .  .  .  like  Cape 
Griz-nez,  by  the  Lord  !  Like  the  He  d'Yeu,  like  Scilly 
.  .  .  the  Seven  Stones  he  had  passed  without  knowledge 
.  .  .  like  the  twin  light  peering  through  the  mist  from 
Lizard  while  the  sea  roared  back  from  an  iron-bound  coast. 

The  light  entered  and  rent  him.     He  lay  split  and  gasp- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW   125 

ing  ;  spent,  too,  and  mouthing  foolishness — until  presently 
he  lay  still. 

The  night  droned  on  as  is  the  way  of  nights.  Steps 
sometimes  were  audible  overhead  ;  sometimes  for  a  long 
interval  no  sound  was  heard.  Again  dulled  movements, 
the  hum  of  voices  speaking  together  and  a  long,  low  cry. 

Denis  O'Hagan  answered  that  cry.  In  his  sleep  he 
heard  it  and  strove  to  respond.  A  futile  effort  now — 
futile  as  the  fumbling  movement  of  arms  which  went 
out  in  search,  which  clasped  nothingness — futile  as  the 
muttered  commentary  formed  by  lips  which  had  lost  the 
power  of  speech. 

Dawn  peeped  in  to  look  at  him.  A  pale  flicker  of  light 
very  delicate  and  grey  as  yet ;  but  sufficient  to  show  that 
he  rested.  It  peeped  in  at  the  window  of  the  room  where 
Lucy  lay,  and  discovered  her  emerged  from  the  valley  of 
the  shadow,  a  man  child  in  her  arms. 

And  the  light  touching  her  cheeks  showed  a  soft  flush 
of  triumph. 


Phase  the  Third 
Ticket-of- Leave 


CHAPTER  I 

DOCKWALLOPING 

Down  by  the  edge  of  Soundings 

That's  where  the  sailors  lie, 
Flat  on  the  floor  like  groundlings 

To  hear  the  ships  go  by — 
Lift  their  heads  to  hail  us, 

Wave  their  arms  awhile. 
So  the  dead  men  watch  us. 

So  the  dead  men  smile. 

A  MOXTH  had  passed  and  the  most  beautiful  period  of 
the  year  was  at  hand  when  Denis  O'Hagan  decided  that 
he  must  waste  no  more  time  and  money  on  the  effort  to 
obtain  a  berth  on  shore.  It  was  necessary,  he  said  one 
evening,  after  watching  Lucy  for  the  first  time  tubbing 
her  firstborn,  to  wake  from  dreams  and  turn  in  real  earnest 
to  the  task  of  finding  a  ship  which  would  carry  him  to  sea. 

Mrs.  Faulkner,  who  had  come  too  late  from  Dorset  to 
help  dear  Lucy  in  the  "  hour  of  her  trial,"  as  she  expressed 
it,  had  now  returned  to  continue  her  struggles  with  the 
problems  presented  to  the  wife  of  an  Army  man  who  has 
been  shelved  by  his  country.  Neither  Lucy  nor  Denis 
had  wept  over  her  departure.  She  had  scattered  so  large 
a  dose  of  pessimism,  during  her  visit,  over  the  difficulties 
with  which  these  two  were  faced,  that  they  smiled  when 
the  cab  rattled  off  with  her  luggage.  She  had  been  so 
concerned,  too,  with  the  fact  that  Colonel  Faulkner,  "  who 
is  kindness  itself,  my  dear,"  found  himself  unable  to  come 
to  their  assistance  at  the  moment.  The  colonel  was 
pictured  as  shaking  a  sorrowing  head  over  the  prospects 
of  "  that  smart  young  fellow,  O'Hagan,"  when  in  truth 
he  was  occupied  largely  with  golf  and  the  possibility  of 
bringing  out  a  new  club,  of  which  he  was  the  patentee. 

If  that  club  caught  on,  as  he  was  persuaded  it  would, 
the  O'Hagans  need  not  worry,  for  Colonel  Faulkner  was 
quite  sure  to  do  the  right  thing  by  his  niece  .  .  .  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  if  it  did  not  catch  on,  then — well,  the  sooner 

B.F.  K 


130  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

O'Hagan  got  himself  afloat  again  and  on  the  paysheet, 
b'gad  !  the  better  it  would  be  for  all  concerned. 

That  these  were  truisms  Mrs.  Faulkner  was  prepared  to 
admit,  and  she  shook  her  head  very  despondently  over 
the  prospects  of  that  new  club.  In  spite  of  the  colonel's 
optimism,  she  had  her  moments  of  depression,  and  the 
night  before  she  left  The  Deodars  she  considered  it  her 
duty  to  talk  to  O'Hagan,  to  "  rally  "  him,  so  she  termed  it, 
from  an  indifference  that  positively  amazed  her.  As  far 
as  she  could  read  the  signs  Denis  seemed  quite  content  to 
sit  still  and  admire  the  son  and  heir  which  had  been  born 
to  the  house  of  O'Hagan.  It  seemed  indeed  that  he  had 
forgotten  that  baby  O'Hagans  require  nourishment  and 
several  other  things  which  cost  money,  and  could  not  be 
expected  to  live  as  do  the  cherubs  who  have  no  body  to 
sustain. 

Mrs.  Faulkner  was  kind  in  her  method  of  raising  the 
curtain  on  attack  ;  but  O'Hagan  discerned  that  she  meant 
to  stir  him,  to  put  him  on  his  mettle  perhaps,  as  though 
that  were  necessary  with  one  who,  despite  his  faults,  loved 
Lucy  and  that  small  son  of  his,  and  would  fight  for  them 
while  life  remained.  She  could  not  understand,  you 
perceive,  why  there  was  so  great  a  difficulty  in  obtaining 
employment.  Denis  was  not  broken,  as  she  compre- 
hended the  affair,  but  suspended.  Of  course,  if  a  man  was 
broken  in  the  Army  or  Navy,  and  very  probably  it  was  the 
same  in  the  merchant  service,  there  was  an  end  of  him  ; 
but  Colonel  Faulkner  had  assured  her  this  was  not  the  case 
with  Denis,  and  that  it  could  not  be  the  case  for  a  matter 
which  technically  was  known  as  "an  error  of  judgment." 
O'Hagan,  his  pride  awake  and  exceedingly  alive  to 
snubs,  failed  altogether  either  to  ease  her  mind  by  explana- 
tion or  to  promise  a  more  vigorous  assault  on  the  question 
of  obtaining  a  billet.  But  with  Mrs.  Faulkner's  exit  he 
took  the  matter  in  hand.  He  told  Lucy  on  that  night 
when  he  was  first  admitted  to  the  small  nursery,  that  he 
should  go  up  to  town  on  the  following  day  and  commence 
the  search  once  more. 

Thanks  to  Captain  Worsdale  the  strain  of  poverty  was 
lifted  for  the  time.  They  might  rest  assured  of  his  friend- 
ship, and  with  that  sort  of  influence  behind  him  there  was 
no  doubt  a  berth  would  be  found.  Perhaps  Denis  could 
manage  to  pick  up  a  job  as  second  mate  or  bo'sun  and 
earn  a  few  pounds.  Then,  when  he  came  back  his 


DOCKWALLOPING  131 

sentence  would  have  expired  and  he  would  "  get  in  some- 
where." 

Lucy,  flushed  and  thrilling  with  the  delight  of  a  young 
mother  who  has  succeeded  in  taking  the  place  of  nurse 
without  mishap,  asked  whether  this  were  really  necessary. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is,  oh  dearest,"  he  made  answer.  "  I 
mustn't  stay  about  too  long  or  I  shall  forget  all  about 
navigation." 

"  Don't  you  think  perhaps  something  may  turn  up 
for  you  ashore  now  that  you  have  made  such  good  friends, 
Denis  ?  " 

"It  is  possible,  of  course,"  he  said,  in  tones  which 
denied  possibility. 

"  That  means  you  have  lost  faith,  Den."  She  came 
near  and  rested  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  "  I  hate  to 
let  you  go  again,"  she  whispered,  "  unless  I  can  go  with 
you  .  .  .  but  I  will  not  make  it  more  difficult.  Go  and 
see  what  you  can  get,  and  then — well,  we  can  decide, 
can't  we  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  he  admitted  holding  her  close,  "  I  feel 
I  must  do  something  ...  or,  or  your  people  will  be 
thinking  you  have  got  hold  of  a  waster •" 

"  My  people  ?  "  She  looked  up,  scanning  his  face,  and 
added  on  the  information  gained — "  What  has  Aunt 
Mary  been  saying,  Den ?  " 

"  Nothing,  oh  dearest  ..."  he  commenced,  and 
suddenly  halted. 

"  That's  one  of  the  white  ones,"  said  Lucy  with  decision. 
"  Tell  me,  Den." 

"  Oh !  well,  she  is  rather  a  croaker,"  he  decided,  "  and 
if ." 

"  If,"  said  Lucy  with  a  swift  leap  into  the  dark,  "  if 
dear  Charles  is  lucky  enough  to  make  a  hit  with  his  club, 
you  know,  he  will  make  it  easier  for  you,  you  dear 
things  .  .  .  but  if,  on  the  other  hand,  it  doesn't  come  off, 
I  am  afraid  we  shall  find  it  extremely  difficult  to  make 
both  ends  meet  and  .  .  .  that  it,  my  darling  ?  "  Lucy 
ended  with  a  little  clutch  at  his  arm. 

"  You  are  a  witch,"  he  laughed. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  it  is  Aunt  Mary  who  is  the  witch. 
No — I  won't  keep  you  back.  Go  and  see  what  you  can 
get — and  then  come  and  tell  me  what  it  is." 

So  on  the  morrow  Denis  O'Hagan  started  on  his  new 
attempt  to  break  the  thread  Fate  and  some  other  powers 

K  2 


132  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

had  wound  about  his  path,  by  crossing  the  river  and 
walking  methodically  from  ship  to  ship  as  they  lay  in 
dock. 

And  spring  was  in  the  air.  The  trees  were  green  and 
tender,  the  copses  were  strewn  with  bluebells,  the  scent 
of  hawthorn  came  down  the  slope  from  those  fields  which 
lay  beyond  Riverton.  To  walk  the  docks  when  spring 
is  with  us  is  tragedy  to  those  whose  life  is  also  at  its  spring- 
time. And  in  O'Hagan's  case  how  unavailing  ! 

Now  in  order  that  Jimmy  Barlow  might  not  starve 
during  his  nine  months'  holiday,  the  Board  which  is  supreme 
in  nautical  matters  and  numbers  among  its  highest 
members,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  and  the  Speaker 
of  the  Irish  House  of  Commons,  an  office  long  ago  dead, 
but  perhaps  to  be  revived,  granted  him  the  use  of  a  certi- 
ficate of  a  lower  grade.  Jimmy  Barlow  therefore,  for 
the  time  being,  was  de  facto  a  second  mate  in  England's 
mercantile  marine,  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was 
undergoing  sentence  for  incompetency.  Perhaps  the 
Speaker  of  the  Irish  House  of  Commons  when  he  is  re-born 
will  explain  how  these  things  can  be.  Jimmy  Barlow 
made  no  bones  at  all  about  it — he  had  examined  the 
ticket  they  had  allotted  him,  tried  its  value  and  found  it 
useless.  He  found  indeed  that  it  was  productive  of  snubs 
rather  than  of  consideration.  He  found  it  incapable 
of  finding  him  a  berth.  He  found,  as  probably  the  Speaker 
of  the  Irish  House  of  Commons  and  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  do  not  know,  that  an  officer  in  this  situation 
is  in  the  position  of  a  glorified  ticket-of-leave  man,  and 
that  as  a  rule  he  is  unable  to  make  use  of  his  "  ticket." 

To  Captain  O'Hagan  even  less  grace  was  extended. 
True,  neither  he  nor  his  lawyer  had  applied  for  a  certificate 
of  lower  grade.  Unless  driven  by  immediate  and  pressing 
want  an  officer  who  has  been  suspended  would  prefer 
to  try  his  luck  in  the  wheelhouse  of  a  mailship  under  an 
assumed  name.  Anything,  in  point  of  fact,  rather  than 
hawk  from  pillar  to  post  papers  granted  by  the  grace  of 
what  he  calls,  the  "  Plaster  Saint  "  regnant  at  Whitehall. 
Such  papers  carry  on  the  face  of  them  evidence  of  a  man's 
fall,  evidence  of  his  straits.  The  Plaster  Saint  is  hateful 
and  anathema  in  so  many  pettifogging  ways  that  sailors 
would  rather  seek  justice  at  the  hands  of  shipowners 
than  at  the  hands  of  the  Board  over  which  he  rules. 

Even  when  in  some  fashion  or  another,  an  officer  has 


DOCKWALLOPING  133 

served  his  sentence,  both  Jimmy  Barlow  and  Denis 
O'Hagan  were  aware  that  when  he  again  came  before 
shipowners,  the  certificate  he  carried  would  be  defaced. 
It  would  be  a  document  so  torn  and  damaged  by  this 
inquiry  which  had  hit  him  that  it  seemed  possible  his 
degradation  was  designed  to  send  him  to  the  devil  shorn 
even  of  self-respect. 

Jimmy  Barlow  had  suffered  as  has  been  shown  ;  but 
now  through  a  stroke  of  luck — he  considered  it  from  this 
point  of  view — he  was  provided  for ;  and,  if  he  could 
persuade  the  Chilean  owners  with  whose  vessel  he  was 
going  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  seas  very  competent  to  smash 
her,  he  would  "  stick  it  out  "  in  Chile,  send  for  the  "  old 
woman  and  kids  "  and  "  chuck  the  country  "  known  as 
Home.  He  was  sick  of  it.  He  suffered  under  its  methods 
of  quittal.  It  had  no  mercy  for  people  who  were  voteless. 
It  treated  what  it  admitted  to  be  "  an  error  of  judgment  " 
as  though  it  were  a  crime. 

If  Jimmy  Barlow  were  pluming  himself  on  his  luck, 
O'Hagan  was  scarcely  likely  to  do  the  same.  Dock- 
walloping  lay  before  him  for  all  the  remaining  term  of  his 
suspension.  It  faced  him  when  he  emerged  from  his  fall, 
full  of  fight,  and  challenging  the  justice  of  his  sentence. 
It  faced  him  still  and  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  knew  that 
it  had  scotched  him.  He  was  not  the  same  man.  He  must 
sue  now  where  once  he  could  bandy  terms.  He  might 
not  aspire  to  high  command.  He  was  the  prey  and  sport 
of  all  that  tribe  of  lesser  lights  which  clog  the  shipowner's 
firmament.  The  tipster  in  search  of  a  commission  had 
marked  him  down.  The  "  goddess  "  of  the  canteen  had 
pity  in  her  glance  when  he  entered  her  domain.  The 
needy  manager  of  one-ship  companies  in  search  of  a 
"  skipper  who  would  invest  "  had  sent  him  proposals 
which  he  had  consigned  to  the  fire. 

Money  ?  O'Hagan  had  no  money.  A  friend  had  lent 
him  sufficient  to  keep  him  warm  for  a  time  and  he  must 
pay  it  back — certainly  he  had  no  money. 

He  was  a  dockwalloper.  That  is  to  say  he  was  a  person 
who  wallops  about  the  docks  in  search  of  a  job,  in  plain 
sailor-phrase  ;  but  in  dictionary  terms  a  walloper  is  one 
who  moves  clumsily,  who  waddles  about,  one,  also,  it 
explains,  who  "  kicks  about  as  one  does  when  hung  up 
by  the  neck." 

But  if  you  had  asked  O'Hagan  the  meaning  of  the  phrase 


134  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

as  he  came  dejectedly  down  the  gangway  of  a  possible 
tramp,  he  would  have  replied,  "  Hamstrung." 

In  the  old,  bad  days  of  a  plethora  of  officers,  dock- 
walloping  was  the  main  occupation,  when  on  shore,  of 
those  who  desired  to  secure  a  position  as  mate  or  master 
or  seaman  in  the  merchant  service  of  England.  In  order 
to  get  afloat  it  became  necessary  to  commence  tramping 
the  docks  directly  you  were  paid  off ;  to  shuffle  from 
pillar  to  post ;  to  take  blows  and  smile  ;  to  take  in  sober 
truth  what  came  in  order  to  obtain  a  berth  once  more. 
But  now  we  have  changed  all  that.  The  blows  dealt  in 
the  old  days  by  shipowners,  by  the  Plaster  Saint  and  by 
those  Jacks-in-office  whom  the  shipping  interests  employ, 
have  rebounded  and  hurt  the  service. 

Men  began  to  question,  as  O'Hagan  questioned  now, 
whether  going  to  sea  was  worth  the  degradation  entailed 
in  getting  to  sea  ;  or  in  staying  at  sea  when  a  berth  had 
been  secured.  And  in  truth  it  was  not.  Yet  because 
there  lived  for  him  and  thought  of  him  and  loved  him  a 
girl  so  gentle  as  Lucy,  he  made  no  to  do  but  marched  and 
tried  to  smile  ;  tramped  gangways,  interviewed  mates 
and  bosses  and  clerks  who  might  know  of  a  job  and 
pretended  he  was  not  grown  sick  of  the  whole  aim  and 
object  upon  which  he  was  intent.  It  touched  him  on  the 
raw  daily.  The  accent  made  a  desideratum  in  the  Eastern 
Mail  Service  was  a  disservice  to  him  here.  He  became 
suspect  as  a  "  gentleman-rope-hauler,"  one  of  the  species 
eschewed  by  mates  and  captains  in  want  of  crews.  As 
well  climb  the  gangway  of  a  ship  where  he  was  known  as 
the  skipper  of  the  Sphinx,  or  as  a  sea-lawyer. 

Nevertheless  he  tramped  and  came  farther  afield.  He 
haunted  the  docks  now  nearer  London — the  docks  which 
once  held  the  Eastern  clippers,  the  tea  clippers  and  the 
wool  ships  and  made  so  brave  a  show ;  but  which  now 
held  tramps  which  have  a  vocation,  and  tramps  which 
have  none  and  resound  with  the  clang  of  iron.  He 
marched  and  grew  tired,  marched  and  came  near  to  being 
embittered,  ready  to  cavil,  ready  to  sneer,  ready  to  throw 
back  in  the  teeth  of  those  who  smiled  a  touch  of  that 
temper  of  his  which  so  easily  boiled. 

Then  at  nightfall  he  would  creep  back  to  his  home  at 
Riverton  and  sit  quiet  with  Lucy  in  his  arms,  or  with  his 
head  on  Lucy's  lap,  or  listen  to  her  as  she  read  to  him  and 
strove  to  keep  him  from  slipping  back. 


DOCKWALLOPING  135 

That  danger  always  stood  before  Lucy's  steady  gaze, 
as  the  widest  and  most  subtle.  Slipping  back  is  so  easy 
for  one  out  of  whom  you  have  kicked  all  pride,  whose 
years  of  buoyant  seafaring  have  tumbled  flat,  never  again 
to  be  rebuilt. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   ISLE   OF   DOGS 

A  STILL  day  in  the  docks,  the  sun  high,  swimming  like 
a  golden  ball  in  ascending  vapour.  London  at  its  worst, 
praying  for  a  breeze  to  clear  the  sultriness,  the  heated 
atmosphere,  the  rolling  clouds  of  close-packed  smoke  and 
steam  and  mist.  The  country  at  its  best,  clear  to  the 
horizon,  sun-lit,  brilliant  with  peeping  acres,  alive  with 
patches  of  colour  lifting  head  amidst  the  delicate  browns 
of  the  Kentish  hillside. 

Over  there  in  the  south  a  windmill  beckoned,  its  sails 
at  rest  beneath  the  blue  ;  across  that  stretch  of  meadow- 
land  an  army  of  poles  stood  erect  to  tempt  young  hops 
to  climb  ;  down  in  that  undulating  sweep,  acres  of  goose- 
berry and  currant  slowly  produced  the  fruit  for  which 
the  district  is  famed  ;  away  there  in  the  west  were  the 
woods  of  Shorncombe,  towering  and  resplendent  with 
greens  of  the  subtlest,  the  most  delicate — and  there, 
behind  it  all  wound  the  river ;  London's  river,  the  mar- 
vellous Thames  with  its  maze  of  moving  ships. 

Lucy  stood  at  the  summit  of  the  lane  where  a  gateway 
provides  a  resting-place  and  points  to  the  beauties  lying 
beyond.  Overhead  the  larks  sang  liquid  notes  of  praise. 
Searching  the  land  were  the  restless,  anxious  plover,  and 
mingled  with  them  gulls  from  the  river  dotting  the  green 
with  white. 

Baby  O'Hagan  lay  full  length  in  his  carriage  fast 
asleep  and  Lucy  stood  to  rest  after  pushing  him,  staring 
now  at  the  glow  which  hung  over  London  ;  the  smoke 
glow  which  always  marks  a  great  city,  wondering  where 
amidst  those  miles  of  bricks  and  mortar,  dear  Den 
marched  searching  for  work.  Her  heart  ached. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  O'Hagan  had  reached  to-day  that 
U-shaped  bend  of  the  river,  once  of  considerable  notoriety, 
known  as  the  Isle  of  Dogs,  but  now  languishing  before 
its  more  notorious  neighbour.  Limehouse,  you  see,  is 
very  near,  and  now  means  more  than  a  dozen  islands, 


THE  ISLE  OF  DOGS  137 

with  the  dogs  thrown  in,  to  those  who  search  for  the 
light. 

But  it  was  neither  as  an  antiquarian,  nor  as  a  politician 
in  quest  of  veracity  that  Denis  O'Hagan  was  present  on 
this  sultry  day  at  the  Isle  of  Dogs.  He  came  up  indeed 
by  the  Blackwall  Railway  to  see  Jimmy  Barlow  before  he 
sailed,  to  wish  him  God-speed  and  get  an  explanation  of 
the  rather  cryptic  reference  contained  in  his  letter  of  this 
morning  to  a  person  named  William  Tipton.  O'Hagan 
had  puzzled  over  this  at  breakfast  time  and  Lucy  had 
knitted  her  brows  in  a  valorous  attempt  to  be  of  help — 
but  nothing  came  of  it. 

Now  Jimmy  Barlow's  tug  lay  in  the  West  India  Docks 
near  by  the  tidal  basin  ;  and  as  the  West  India  Docks  are 
situated  in  the  midst  of  the  Isle  of  Dogs  it  is  apparent  why 
O'Hagan  had  come  thither. 

Lucy  stood  at  the  gateway  overlooking  Kentish  gardens 
and  wondering  where  Den  was  at  the  moment  when  he 
emerged  from  the  Dock  Railway  and  walked  towards  the 
tidal  basin.  He  was  dressed  to  the  part  and  looked  quite 
a  typical  sailor,  as  the  saying  goes.  He  wore  a  rather 
shabby  coat,  not  because  an  overcoat  was  necessary,  but 
because  he  had  discovered  that  a  tweed  suit  and  a  stick 
were  known  only  among  the  "  la-di-da's,"  and  "  no  sailor 
would  be  seen  dead  in  them."  That  is  part  of  the  dock- 
walloping  creed.  It  is  also  considered  wise,  if  you  intend 
to  obtain  a  berth  by  dockwalloping,  to  wear  a  muffler 
round  your  neck  in  lieu  of  a  collar ;  to  stick  your  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  your  coat  and  make  a  sloven  of  yourself. 
Of  course  these  things  are  quite  easy  to  the  rank  and  file 
of  His  Majesty's  subjects  in  Christian  England ;  but  to 
an  officer  who  has  graduated  in  a  service  where  "  accent 
is  considered  of  higher  value  than  efficiency,"  it  is  not  so 
easy. 

O'Hagan,  in  point  of  fact,  would  never  make  an  honest 
ne'er-do-weel.  His  training  as  a  boy  in  an  English 
vicarage,  his  laughing  days  at  Winchester,  his  drill  since, 
and  those  inherited,  soldier-like  traits  which  were  his, 
gave  him  away  every  time  he  attempted  to  stoop.  Other- 
wise had  he  never  won  Lucy. 

He  came  at  length  to  the  dock  side  and  stood  looking 
down  at  Barlow's  command.  She  was  small,  even  for  a 
tug,  but  adapted  to  the  special  work  for  which  she  was 
planned.  The  builders  had  "  housed-in "  her  more 


138  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

vulnerable  parts,  and  she  looked  neither  fish,  flesh  nor 
good  red-herring.  As  a  matter  of  detail,  it  may  be  said 
that  O'Hagan  blinked  when  he  saw  her.  He  rather 
questioned  whether  he  had  come  to  the  right  dock  ;  but 
on  searching  farther  discovered  the  vessel's  name  on  her 
bow,  very  new  and  unsullied,  Casa  Blanca,  while  from  the 
stern,  drooping  nearly  to  the  water,  hung  her  country's 
flag,  the  Lone  Star  of  Chile. 

He  hailed  her  at  this,  although  wonder  grew  as  he  took  her 
in,  and  a  man  with  a  shock  head  of  black  ringlets  pushed 
through  the  companion-way  to  shout — "  Que  guiere  ?  " 

"  A  Dago,  by  the  Lord,"  said  O'Hagan  in  his  throat; 
then  aloud,  nodding  over  the  impression  he  had  obtained, 
"  Captain  on  board  ?  " 

"  .No  se."  The  man  shook  out  his  ringlets  answering, 
"  Wot  you  wanch  ?  " 

"  Your  captain,  my  son,"  said  O'Hagan  with  distinct 
enunciation,  "  Capitan  Barlow  who " 

The  man  turned  in  a  great  hurry — "  I  go  make  look," 
said  he,  and  disappeared. 

Then  after  a  small  pause  Jimmy  Barlow  rose  from  the 
scuttle  way  and  waved  a  cheery  hand.  O'Hagan  observed 
that  he  was  clean-shaven,  that  he  looked  ten  years  younger 
and  that  he  wore  a  cap  adorned  by  a  new  gold  badge. 
He  noticed,  too,  that  Jimmy  Barlow  did  not  speak,  but 
clambered  along  the  half-round  and  pushed  up  a  ladder 
which  O'Hagan  brought  to  earth  on  the  dock  sill. 

"  I've  got  you,"  whispered  Jimmy  Barlow,  as  he  leaned 
his  weight  on  the  bottom  rungs.  "  Yo  tener  usted,"  he 
added  as  an  afterthought,  intending  a  passing  dock  official 
to  hear  that  he  spoke  Spanish  when  he  merely  jabbered 
Levanter. 

O'Hagan  climbed  on  board  and  stood  examining  the 
rotund  face  of  his  fellow  sufferer.  He  smiled  broadly,  all 
the  humour  of  his  race  leaping  to  the  surface,  but  Jimmy 
Barlow  did  not  smile.  His  fingers  went  up  with  the  old 
gesture  to  stroke  his  beard.  Then  he  said — 

"  Dockwalloping,  by  the  look  of  it,"  and  shook  his  head 
his  eyes  registering  concern. 

O'Hagan  nodded.  "  From  ship  to  ship,"  he  admitted. 
"  Not  much  good,  though." 

"  No,"  said  Jimmy  Barlow,  "  dressing  the  part  don't 
do  the  trick,  sir.  You  might  as  well  try  to  get  a  job 
fts  a  counter-jumper  as  a  deck-hand.  You've  got  officer 


THE  ISLE   OF  DOGS  139 

written  all  over  you  and  it's  no  use  trying  to  hide  it.     Had 
any  luck  at  all  ?  " 

"  None,"  said  O'Hagan. 

"  Tried  the  effect  of  a  week-old  beard  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  shaved  off  mine — then  went  without  a  wash  for  a 
fortnight.     That  did  the  trick.     I  got  a  job  '  lumping,'  ' 
the  ex-mate  announced. 

"  Gad  !  "  O'Hagan  laughed,  "  if  anyone  had  told  me 
that  Jimmy  Barlow  would  sacrifice " 

"  Hist !  "  came  abruptly,  and  there  followed  in  mono- 
tone— "  No  Jimmy  Barlows  here,  sir,  if  you  please.  'E's 
dead.  I  should  'av  mentioned  it.  Enery  Tompson  is  my 
name  .  .  .  Enery,  not  Henry — an' I'm  a  chap,"  he  hissed 
out,  "  wivout  a  haitch  in  the  world  bar  them  I  sticks  in 
wrong.  Enery  Tompson  hat  your  service,  sir,  an'  many 
of  'em.  Come  below  an'  see  the  cock-pit.  I  call  it  that. 
'Taint  much  of  a  place  .  .  .  an'  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we 
finds  it  pretty  yellow  w'en  we  gets  houtside  an'  'as  to 
screw  down  .  .  .  come  along  an'  see  'er.  Might  just  as 
well  be  in  a  submarine." 

The  change  was  so  provocative  that  half  way  thither 
O'Hagan  broke  in  with  the  heartiest  laugh  he  had  sounded 
for  weeks. 

"  Good  Lord  !  .  .  .  anyone  there  ?  "  he  questioned,  still 
chuckling. 

"  In  the  cock-pit  ?  "  the  voice  of  Jimmy  Barlow 
challenged. 

"  Yes." 

"  Not  a  soul,  sir  ...  not  a  soul  or  you  wouldn't  be 
here  .  .  .  come  along  down." 

O'Hagan  obeyed  and  found  a  seat  in  the  smallest  cabin 
to  accommodate  four  persons  he  had  yet  seen.  He 
glanced  about,  chuckling,  and  noting  the  scanty  head 
room,  the  closed-in  bunks,  all  brand  new  and  smelling  of  the 
polish  which  so  recently  had  been  applied.  He  examined 
swiftly  the  tiny  swinging  tray,  barometer,  chronometer 
case  and  one  small  washstand  ;  while  at  the  same  moment 
Enery  Tompson  made  mental  notes  of  the  fact  that  "  the 
Old  Man  "  had  lost  snap,  that  his  laugh  seemed  less 
spontaneous,  less  cheery  ;  that  his  eyes  had  grown  colder 
than  in  those  days  when  first  he  came  to  take  command 
of  the  Sphinx. 

It  was  Jimmy  Barlow  who  produced  two  glasses  and  a 


140  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

bottle  of  whisky  from  the  locker ;  who  placed  them  on 
a  small  table  which  pivoted  down  from  the  overhead 
beams  ;  but  it  was  the  new  man,  Tompson,  who  looked  up 
to  request — 

"  You'll  jine  me  in  wishin'  the  old  gell  luck,  sir,"  said  he. 

"  If  I  never  drink  again,"  O'Hagan  answered,  "  I  will." 

"  Good — say  when." 

"  When  —  when,  my  dear  Bar  .  .  .  Enery,"  said 
O'Hagan,  with  outstretched  hand.  "  I  want  to  keep  my 
wits  about  me,  if  you  please." 

"  It  will  be  the  last  I  touch,"  said  the  voice  of  Jimmy 
Barlow,  "  this  side  of  Val-i-paraiso."  He  filled  and  took 
water,  lifted  his  glass  and  clicked  the  rim  of  O'Hagan's, 
and  together  they  said — "  Good  luck — good  luck,"  and 
drank. 

O'Hagan  placed  his  tumbler  within  one  of  the  squares 
known  as  "  fiddles,"  which  were  fixed  to  the  table  to 
prevent  crockery  fetching  away  when  the  boat  rolled  ; 
but  Barlow  continued  to  nurse  his. 

"  I  see  you  expect  her  to  move,  when  you  get  outside," 
said  O'Hagan,  with  a  glance  at  the  firmly  secured  rack. 

"  Oh!  she'il  move,"  Barlow  assented.  "She'll  be  like 
a  tub  in  a  tide-rip  if  I  know  anything  of  the  sea.  But 
she's  solid.  I've  seen  to  that.  They  gave  me  a  clean 
sheet  and  I  just  filled  in  what  I  wanted.  They  didn't 
seem  to  know  much  about  what  it  would  be  like  down 
there  " — he  jerked  his  thumb  to  indicate  the  southern  seas — 
"  but  they  made  no  bones  about  doing  what  I  wanted." 

He  put  up  one  hand  to  stroke  his  beard  and  found 
shaven  cheeks,  grinned  and  said,  "  I  had  to  do  it,  sir,"  as 
though  but  a  moment  had  elapsed  since  O'Hagan  rallied 
him  on  the  loss  of  his  beard.  "  The  builders,"  he  added 
with  dropped  voice,  "  seem  to  have  had  a  lot  of  difficulty 
getting  hold  of  a  skipper  to  take  her  out  .  .  .  size  against 
her,"  he  asserted,  twinkling,  "  nothing  else  that  I  can  find 
out.  She's  a  good,  healthy  little  packet — as  far  as  build 
is  concerned  .  .  .  but  she's  small — small  to  do  the  trip 
out  there  " — his  voice  became  persuasive,  and  very  flexile — 
"  but  she  'as  to  be  got  out,  an'  I've  promised  to  tike  'er 
.  .  .  an'  I'm  Enery  Tompson,  sir,  an'  Jimmy  Barlow's 
dead  as  doughnuts.  .  .  .  So's  'is  bloomin'  ticket,"  he 
flared,  "  So's  'is  lyin'  discharges.  I  'old  none  of  'em  an' 
never  will  again  .  .  .  they  all  went  into  the  fire  w'ile 
I'm  lumpin'  cargo  in  the  docks,  up  there  along,"  said  the 


THE   ISLE  OF  DOGS  141 

rasping  voice  of  Enery  Tompson.  "  I  took  in  a  stock  of 
knowledge  down  at  Tilbury  .  .  .  over  there  at  the  Com- 
mercial, too,  an'  I'm  a  chap  wiv  a  bran'-new  outfit ;  one 
I  bought  from  a  bloke  on  the  drink  fer  a  five-pun  note — 
an',"  the  voice  jarred  out,  "  an'  I  intend  to  use  it  from 
this  on — down  there,"  again  the  jerked  finger  to  indicate 
those  southern  seas  he  would  presently  be  dodging. 

O'Hagan  listened,  throwing  in  a  word  of  acquiescence 
when  occasion  seemed  to  require  it,  and  marvelling  at  the 
change  he  perceived  in  placid,  easy-going  Jimmy  Barlow  ; 
amazed,  too,  at  the  facility  with  which  he  altered  his  note. 
As  Enery  Tompson  he  sneered  and  snapped  through 
phrases  which  stung ;  as  Jimmy  Barlow  he  was  the  mate 
of  the  Sphinx  talking  to  his  commander. 

He  sipped  whisky,  set  down  his  glass  and  once  more  fell 
into  the  stride  of  old  days. 

"  I  got  tired  of  humping  cases,  sir,  slinging  them  and 
trucking  them  over  to  the  sheds  .  .  .  and  I  got  sick  to 
death  of  being  chased  from  one  job  to  another  by  chaps 
called  Union  men,  who  wouldn't  work  with  a  poor  devil 
down  on  his  bare-buff  because  he  hadn't  a  Union  ticket. 
And  wouldn't  let  me  join  the  Union  either,  although,  as 
God  knows  me,  the  wife  and  kids  were  hard  put  to  it  for 
a  meal.  Their  ranks  were  full,  damn  them.  They  had  no 
room  for  starvelings — the  devil  seize  them — and  Govern- 
ment pats  them  on  the  back  and  even  the  Federation 
can't  say  *  Bo  !  '  to  'em.  Afraid,  I  suppose.  No — I 
didn't  seek  to  get  in  there.  I  might  if  I  hadn  t  been  Jimmy 
Barlow — hadn  t  been  on  the  Black  List  .  .  .  'adn't  got 
a  '  by  your  leave  '  ticket  an'  wasn't  down  .  .  .  down  on 
the  bottom  .  .  .  Freedom  ?  My  God  !  Justice  ?  I  love 
to  hear  them  jaw.  England  is  proud  of  her  sailormen  ! 
Is  she  ?  Then  God  help  the  chaps  she  despises.  I've 
done  with  England.  I've  done  with  its  blighted  Govern- 
ment, and  its  Board  of  roosters  all  crowing  out  what  they 
don't  know  of  ships.  I'm  going  out  south  and  west  as 
Enery  Tompson.  When  I  get  there  I'll  send  for  the 
wife.  I'll  tell  her  who  Enery  Tompson  is — she  doesn't 
know  yet,  for  I  daren't  trust  her,  I  daren't  trust  any  man 
but  you,  sir,  and  you  are  in  the  same  boat,  and  may  have 
to  swim  the  same  way  as  me.  .  .  .  Why,  I  ask  you — 
what  would  happen  to  me  if  the  roosters  knew  what  you 
and  I  know  ? 

"  Would  the  Chilean  Consul  be  any  good  to  save  me 


142  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

...  or  the  Chilean  President  if  he  knew  of  me  ?  Where 
would  I  go  out  of  this  snug  little  cockpit — ashore  or 
afloat  ?  " 

"  Ashore,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,"  O'Hagan  answered. 

**  Just  so.  An'  that's  why,  if  you  ask  me,  I  decided  to 
take  on  this  jaunt.  It's  why  I  decided  to  burn  my  papers, 
clean  off  my  beard,  and  take  their  offer  of  the  little  hooker 
they  want  ferried  to  the  westward.  .  .  . 

"  I'm  on  the  bloomin'  Black  List  as  Jimmy  Barlow. 
I'm  clean  and  all  above-board  as  Enery  Tompson.  As 
well  be  Enery  Tompson  as  any  other  kind  of  damned 
loafer  in  England  to-day.  It's  the  loafer  who  gets  all 
the  beans,  the  chap  that  shirks  his  job,  the  chap  that 
stands  snivelling  at  a  hand  organ  in  the  streets,  with  a 
ticket  to  show  the  number  of  children  his  poor  devil  of  a 
wife  has  brought  into  the  world.  Oh,  my  God  !  I'm 
sick  of  England.  There  is  no  chance  for  men  in  England. 
There's  a  ring  to  keep  them  out  ...  it  has  a  thing  at  the 
top  of  it  they  call  a  Prime  Minister,  and  at  the  bottom 
there's  another  thing  called  the  Plaster  Saint,  and  he 
.  .  ." — the  voice  of  Jimmy  Barlow  died  away  and  the  voice 
of  Enery  Tompson  took  its  place — "  ee  finks  ee  knows  all 
about  ships  an'  sailors  an'  firemen  an'  greasers  .  .  .  an' 
ee  tells  us  wot  we  may  do  ...  an'  wot  we  mayn't  do. 
Ee  passes  a  Hact  an'  orders  a  bit  more  tucker  for  the  poor 
devils  in  the  fo'c'sle,  an'  the  shipowners  'av  to  pay  fer  it 
.  .  .  an'  they  buck  at  payin'.  .  .  . 

"  They  sing  out — '  Hi,  there  ! — 'old  'ard — just  come  'ere 
w'ile  we  put  this  straight,'  an'  the  roosters  come  in  wiv 
the  Plaster  Saint  at  their  'ead.  Then  the  shipowners 
explain  'ow  they'll  go  bung  if  all  these  'andicaps  are  put 
on  'em.  '  This-yer  Hact  of  yourn,'  they  say,  '  is  just  the 
Limit.' 

"  An'  the  Plaster  Saint  brought  up  wiv  a  round  turn 
says — '  Well,  but  what  d'you  want  ? 

"  '  We  want  deckloads  in  the  winter- time  an'  we  want 
to  load  deeper  so  as  we  can  compete  on  fair  terms  wiv 
uvver  nations,'  says  the  shipowners.  '  Take  it,'  says  the 
Plaster  Saint.  '  Blowed  if  I  know  anything  about  it,  an' 
don't  want  to — but  take  it.' 

"  An  so,"  said  the  voice  of  Enery  Tompson,  a  gleam  in 
his  dark  eyes,  "  the  leadline's  altered,  we  bury  Plimsoll 
out  o'  sight,  take  deckloads,  an'  go  slitherin'  to  'Ell  at 
their  forsaken  Inquiries.  .  .  . 


THE   ISLE  OF  DOGS  143 

"  I  remember  the  Sphinx  before  this  new  leadline  was 
passed,  but  you  weren't  in  her.  She  was  a  wholesome  boat. 
You  could  get  about  her  decks — but  with  two  hundred 
ton  more  in  her  belly  and  a  batty  of  cases  on  deck  she's 
like  a  teetotum.  You  can't  stand  when  there's  a  sea  on. 
You  can't  work.  She  might  be  a  grampus  .  .  .  and  we 
have  to  pay  for  what  happens." 

He  drained  his  glass  and  set  it  down — "  I'm  tired  of  all 
this,"  he  said,  with  the  intonation  of  former  days  ;  "  I'm 
tired  of  being  sat  upon  and  squashed  by  roosters  that 
don't  know  one  end  of  a  ship  from  another.  I'm  sick  of 
seeing  the  wife  and  kids  starve,  and  so  I'm  going  out  in 
the  Casa  Blanca,  and  mean  to  stay  there.  ..." 

He  rose  and  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  his  eyes  blazing  with 
the  hatred  he  described. 

"  If  I  thought  it  would  do  anybody  any  good  to  blow  up 
Whitehall,"  he  hissed,  "  I'd  blow  it  up.  If  I  thought  it 
would  do  my  wife  and  kids  good  if  I  cut  my  throat,  I'd  cut 
my  throat  right  here  ...  or  if — 

He  produced  a  revolver,  and  stood  balancing  it  in  his 
hand,  as  O'Hagan  rose,  too,  saying  authoritatively — 
"  Wait !  Wait !  Don't  play  the  fool,  man." 

Jimmy  Barlow  blinked,  and  set  the  revolver  on  the 
table  with  a  gentleness  which  mated  curiously  with  his 
words. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I'm  not  using  that  now.  If  I  don't 
manage  to  get  her  out  I  shall  use  it  ...  or,  if  they  spot 
me  before  I  get  clear  of  the  dock  gates,  I  shall  use  it. 
But  .  .  .  I'm  not  balmy.  There's  two  hundred  quid  in 
this  trip,  besides  pickings  .  .  .  and  I  don't  have  to  render 
an  account  of  commissions  to  my  managing  owner"  he 
leered. 

He  opened  a  drawer,  found  cartridges,  and  proceeded  to 
load  with  the  air  of  one  whose  actions  are  all  planned. 
Then,  pocketing  the  pistol,  he  shot  his  cuffs  and  moved 
towards  the  companion. 

O'Hagan  followed,  puzzled  by  his  attitude.  The  sneer- 
ing comments  of  the  man  fell  with  such  biting  precision 
that  instinctively  O'Hagan  visualised  the  notion  which 
Barlow  had  repudiated  with  the  phrase,  "  I'm  not  balmy." 
True.  Yet  it  was  easy  to  read  that  he  was  desperate. 

O'Hagan  mopped  his  forehead  as  they  reached  the  deck. 
It  was  warm  in  that  cockpit  of  a  cabin.  It  was  airless,  too, 
and  on  the  foreside  of  it  the  tug's  boilers  hummed. 


144  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

The  Enery  Tompson  voice  and  manner  was  in  evidence 
again  when  they  reached  the  deck. 

"  Coal  to  the  bloomin'  bridge,"  said  he.  "  An'  w'ere 
there  ain't  coal  there's  water  an'  grub.  .  .  .  We'll  'av 
to  go  gingerly  wiv  'er.  One  or  two  plices  rather  bother  a 
man.  There's  crossin'  from  the  Gut  to  the  islands  .  .  . 
that  may  be  bad  .  .  .  an'  there's  the  stretch  between 
St.  Vincent  an'  Brazil.  After  that  we  can  dodge  again 
.  .  .  but  the  nastiest  bit  will  be  when  we're  froo  the 
Straits  .  .  .  winter  time  too  .  .  .  Well — I  guess  we  can 
pull  through  or  pull  out.  It'll  be  easier  to  pull  out  at 
sea  than  in  this  stew-pan,  where  a  man  mayn't  work  if 
ee  wants  to  work ;  mayn't  follow  'is  callin',  an'  gets 
stuck  on  a  Black  List  by  a  frowsy  crowd  o'  roosters  as 
don't  know  the  starn  end  of  a  boat  from  the  bow.  .  .  . 
Come  up  and  see  the  bridge — 

He  clambered  over  cases  and  coal  bags  and  reached 
the  small  ladder.  He  was  quieter  now,  more  restrained, 
but  the  voice  of  Jimmy  Barlow  was  entirely  suppressed. 
He  turned  and  pointed  to  the  compass  as  O'Hagan 
joined  him.  "  That's  a  Kelvin  binnacle  and  card,"  he 
said.  "  They  'ad  a  thing  there  I  wouldn't  be  seen  dead 
aside.  I  made  'em  take  it  out.  '  Kelvin's  my  mark, 
sirs,'  says  I;  'if  I'm  to  navigate  'er  I  want  the  best.' 
An'  they  give  it.  ...  There's  the  telegraphs,  an'  speakin' 
toobs  .  .  .  not  much  use  to  a  skipper  as  can  poke  'is 
'ead  in  at  the  engine  room  scuttle  an'  keep  'is  'and  on  the 
wheel  at  the  same  time.  Yus  !  she's  small  ...  no  two 
ways  about  that  .  .  .  but  she's  a  daisy  to  pull  ..." 

He  marched  to  the  starboard  side  of  the  bridge  pointing 
out  details  which  O'Hagan  understood  and  could  gather 
at  a  glance.  He  seemed  to  be  alert,  to  be  watching  without 
a  move  for  some  person  to  spring  out  upon  him  and  hale 
him  once  again  to  that  devilish  region  where  he  had  fought 
to  be  allowed  to  hump  sacks  and  so  keep  from  disruption 
the  souls  and  bodies  of  five  persons. 

A  woman  and  three  young  children  depended  upon 
Jimmy  Barlow.  They  were  as  the  light  of  his  eyes  to 
him,  and  his  burden.  To  hear  them  cry  for  bread  was 
a  knife-thrust  in  his  vitals.  He  had  risen  in  the  night  to 
consider  the  end  that  might  be  theirs.  A  boy  and  two 
girls  lay  beneath  his  hand  ...  he  shuddered  as  the 
memory  recurred. 

He  had  an  honest  man's  horror  of  crime  ;  but  he  argued 


THE   ISLE  OF  DOGS  145 

now,  that  the  crime  he  committed  in  escape  was  less  than 
the  crime  he  might  find  to  his  hand  if  he  remained. 

And  the  sun  blared  down  upon  him  as  he  stood  there 
making  his  apologia  to  O'Hagan.  The  hum  of  the  London 
docks  was  in  the  air ;  the  glint  of  London's  river  made 
soft  his  eyes ;  the  rolling  clouds  of  smoke  and  steam 
fashioned  pictures  which  only  a  sailor  can  read.  He 
walked  moodily  up  and  down  the  bridge  before  O'Hagan, 
his  eyes  uneasy,  his  mind  alert.  And  suddenly  he  halted. 

A  cone  was  hoisted  on  the  dock  head. 

"Ah!"  he  breathed.  "We'll  do  it.  PVaps  it's  the 
last  time  I'll  see  it  ...  a  fine  day,  too,  to  mind. 
London  !  "  He  took  a  deep  breath — "  My  God,  an'  I 
love  it.  ... 

"  Kickin'  me  out  though.  No  use  for  my  sort  .  .  .  No 
money,  you  see,  nothin'  to  make  things  hum.  Wish 
I'd  never  seen  it  ...  bah  !  that's  a  lie  if  ever  I  told  one — 
fer  I  love  it  ...  just  love  it  ...  so  does  the  wife  and 
bairns.  ..." 

He  stretched  out  his  arms  with  the  action  of  one  shooting 
his  linen  and  looked  quizzically  at  O'Hagan  standing  silent 
and  oppressed  at  his  side. 

"  Sorry  !  "  he  said  with  a  jerk.  "  I'm  givin'  all  'ands 
the  blues — an'  you  into  the  bargain.  Well  .  .  .  I'm  off 
now."  He  approached  the  telegraph  and  rang  the 
"  Stand  by,"  then  crossed  and  speaking  swiftly  said — 
"  The  wife's  address  is  written  down  here  in  case  you  are 
able  to  explain  things  to  her.  I  shall  write,  of  course — 
but  she  doesn't  know  I'm  sailin'  .  .  .  ner  does  the  kids  .  .  . 
an'  I  daren't  tell  'em.  Put  things  right  for  me,  sir  .  .  . 
an'  oh  !  yes — w'ile  I  fink  of  it  " — the  mate  had  come  up 
and  the  skipper's  accent  was  accentuated — "  see  that 
coaster  over  there,  the  one  wiv  the  rainbow  funnel  .  .  .  ?  " 

O'Hagan  acknowledged  that  he  saw. 

"  Well,  I  should  give  'er  a  look  up  if  I  was  you — 
there's  a  job  goin',  an'  'er  mate's  nime  is  William 
Tipton." 

"  Tipton  ?  " 

"  Yaas — the  chap  as  commanded  the  Riddle  afore  she 
was  lost,  you  remember." 

"  I  know,"  said  O'Hagan. 

"  Think  it  out,"  the  voice  of  Enery  Tompson  proclaimed 
while  a  wink  appeared  to  point  the  allusion.  He  drew 
O'Hagan  towards  the  ladder  which  he  again  adjusted  on 

B.P.  L 


146  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

the  dock  sill,  and  holding  out  his  hand  said  in  a  hoarse 
whisper — 

"  See  'irn  before  you  decide  on  anythink  else."  Then 
with  a  cheery  shake — "  Well — so  long." 

And  O'Hagan  gripping  firmly  the  rungs,  mounted  with 
the  words — 

"  Good  luck,  Enery;  good  luck  to  you  ...  so  long." 

With  a  tossed  chin  the  skipper  watched  until  O'Hagan 
reached  the  dock  sill.  Then  he  drew  the  ladder  back 
and  passed  to  the  bridge.  He  looked  over  the  new  dodger 
and  nodded  first  to  a  man  aft,  then  to  a  man  in  the  bows, 
and  they  drew  in  the  ropes  which  had  held  them.  The 
mate  twisted  the  wheel.  A  single  blast  came  from  the 
tug-boat's  whistle,  a  clang  from  the  engine-room  gong,  and 
the  Casa  Blanco,  moved  away  from  the  Isle  of  Dogs  to 
take  up  her  station  in  the  Pacific. 


CHAPTER  III 

WILLIAM   TIPTON 

THE  Casa  Blanco,  was  a  blob  of  smoke  and  a  mast 
moving  past  the  land  bordering  Woolwich  Reach  Avhen 
O'Hagan  turned  from  watching  her  and  crossed  the  swing 
bridge  to  approach  the  collier  with  the  rainbow  funnel. 

He  was  still  puzzled  by  the  air  of  secrecy  with  which 
Jimmy  Barlow  had  wrapped  his  allusion  to  that  rather 
commonplace  vessel,  but  on  consideration  it  seemed  to 
synchronise  with  his  attitude  on  other  matters.  He 
appeared  to  imagine  himself  the  victim  not  of  circumstance, 
but  of  a  plot  which  aimed  at  suppressing  him  and  robbing 
him  of  the  means  of  earning  his  livelihood.  The  Board  of 
Trade  was  concerned  to  snuff  him  out.  The  magistracy, 
or,  as  he  termed  it,  the  "  roosters,"  had  pushed  him  into 
hotchpotch  when  in  justice  he  ranked  equally  with  those 
who  had  never  touched  disaster.  Trades  Unionism,  with 
a  Prime  Minister  cooing  in  the  background,  attempted 
to  deny  him  the  right  to  work  and  earn  money  for  his 
family  in  any  other  calling  but  that  from  which  the 
roosters  and  the  Plaster  Saint  had  driven  him. 

To  a  man  so  harassed  and  drawn  it  was  possible  to 
assign  a  mentality  which  bordered  on  the  ridiculous  if 
not  on  the  irresponsible.  O'Hagan  scented  a  bee  in  his 
friend's  bonnet,  but  O'Hagan,  with  his  "  unearned 
increment  "  and  backers,  had  not  yet  sounded  the  depths 
plumbed  by  Jimmy  Barlow.  A  man  without  income  or 
savings  who  is  debarred  the  means  of  prosecuting  his 
calling  is  at  the  end  of  his  tether  in  all  sobriety,  and 
is  likely  to  see  red  when  standing  on  the  brink  of 
reinstatement. 

So,  now  that  Jimmy  Barlow's  tug  had  vanished  from 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  Isle  of  Dogs,  O'Hagan  acknow- 
ledged to  a  feeling  of  security  for  the  ex-chief  himself. 
He  knew  that  no  English  port  would  see  the  Casa  Blanca 
taking  shelter,  should  that  be  necessary.  He  knew  that 
Jimmy  Barlow  would  put  as  speedily  as  possible  "  the 

L  2 


148  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

three  mile  limit  "  between  his  tug  and  his  pursuers,  did 
any  exist.  He  knew,  too,  that  Authority  was  not  likely 
to  get  out  of  its  stride  in  order  to  harass  Jimmy  Barlow 
now  that  he  was  so  safely  wrapped  against  discovery. 
He  knew,  indeed,  that  now  Jimmy  Barlow's  only  enemies 
were  the  sea  and  the  lashing  of  a  gale — nothing  more 
surreptitious,  nothing  less  grand  and  indiscriminating  in 
its  march  to  victory  or  death — the  sea  and  its  ally  the 
wind  of  heaven  which  have  struck  together  and  again 
will  strike. 

O'Hagan  had  a  glimmering  perception  of  the  end  of 
this  forlorn  hope  of  Jimmy  Barlow's,  and  a  corresponding 
anxiety.  You  cannot  sail  with  a  man  and  know  him  as 
comrade  in  scenes  of  mirth  and  danger  without  ac- 
knowledging a  softening  when  criticism  is  in  the  air  ;  a 
qualifying  strain  even  when  he  embarks  on  stupidity. 
O'Hagan  had  already  placed  this  adventure  in  his  mind, 
and  no  doubt  Lloyd's,  who  inter  alia  prepared  Black  Lists, 
would  do  the  same  as  a  "  Special  Risk  "  to  be  paid  for 
by  a  special  premium.  .  .  .  They  acknowledged,  in  truth, 
what  it  was  and  is — a  means  of  rehabilitation  for  those 
Bottle-fillers  of  the  English  who  have  come  a  cropper 
while  filling  the  Bottle  ;  for  a  man,  in  point  of  fact,  whom 
the  nation  s  la\vs  has  made  derelict. 

Vae  victis  ! 

Well — no  man  is  conquered  until  the  end  comes,  and  a 
forlorn  hope  carried  to  a  successful  termination  in  other 
fields  has  been  known  to  find,  for  the  victor,  honour  at  the 
hands  of  his  King,  even  so  great  an  honour  as  the  V.C. 
But  in  the  field  whereon  Jimmy  Barlow  and  all  those  other 
Bottle-fillers  of  the  nation  are  engaged,  the  honour  is  less 
transcendent. 

O'Hagan  walked  with  disaster  shadowing  him,  dogging 
his  steps.  He  knew,  if  others  do  not,  that  there  is  no 
order  for  bravery  at  sea,  no  Star,  nothing  comparable  to 
the  V.C.  of  the  Army.  He  knew  of  course  that  the  Royal 
Humane  Society's  Medal  was  a  possible  incentive,  if 
incentive  be  required.  He  knew,  too,  of  the  chronometer 
balanced  watch  of  Lloyd's  and  the  Board  of  Trade,  of 
the  stereotyped  presentation  and  silly  speeches  ;  but  he 
knew  of  no  Star. 

*'  Foreign  countries  can  find  a  Star  for  their  sailor  heroes," 
he  commented,  tramping,  head  sunk,  for  the  rainbow 
funnel ;  the  German  Emperor  can  summon  officers  of  his 


WILLIAM  TIPTON  149 

mercantile  marine  to  Berlin  and  bestow  with  his  own  hands 
the  German  Star  for  bravery  at  sea,  but  Authority  in 
England  is  averse  to  the  bestowal  of  high  orders  or  honour 
on  men  of  her  mercantile  marine  ;  and  the  Foreign  Office 
has  been  known  to  add  its  thunder. 

They  are  the  Bottle-fillers,  these  people.  Permanent 
officials  wriggle  with  the  annoyance  they  cause.  They 
are  for  ever  asking  silly  questions,  grumbling  and  wishing 
to  be  consulted.  There  is  no  need  for  consultation. 
Permanent  officials  exist  to  think  for  them,  to  give  them 
their  orders — based  on  statistics  in  which  their  President 
has  no  faith.  Away  to  sea  with  you  !  There  is  no  God 
but  God,  and  the  Plaster  Saint  of  Jimmy  Barlow  is  His 
Prophet. 

O'Hagan  with  knitted  brows  came  to  the  other  side  of 
the  dock  and  halted  beside  the  boat  with  a  rainbow  funnel. 
A  glance  decided  him  and  he  climbed  the  gangway  in 
pursuit  of  his  own  particular  forlorn  hope,  descended  to 
the  iron  decks  and  stood  looking  for  the  person  known  as 
William  Tipton.  An  ex-master  of  the  S.S.  Sphinx ;  a 
vessel  now  defunct,  but  still  trailing  the  results  of  her 
legacy  of  greed. 

O'Hagan  had  the  air  of  an  officer,  it  is  useless  to  disguise 
it,  yet  was  he  clad  for  the  occupation  known  as  dock- 
walloping.  His  face  was  clean-shaven,  his  bearing  erect, 
his  accent  faultless  as  in  those  days  when  he  lorded  it  in 
the  Eastern  mail  service.  His  voice,  too,  gave  him  away, 
it  was  mellow  and  round — the  voice  of  a  public  school  man 
as  we  say  with  pride  and  a  stiffening. 

He  looked  about  him.  The  ship's  deck  was  red  with 
the  rust  of  many  voyages  and  cumbered  by  great  stacks 
of  hatches.  The  holds  yawned  wherever  the  eye  alighted, 
and  in  the  'tween  decks  of  that  one  which  lay  beside  the 
gangway,  a  group  of  lumpers,  men  who  work  cargo, 
lounged,  awaiting  the  signal  to  "  turn-to." 

It  was  the  dinner-hour,  and  the  crew,  if  a  crew  existed 
beside  so  much  red  rust,  was  below.  O'Hagan  could  not 
have  struck  a  more  propitious  moment,  but  it  became 
necessary  to  find  a  soul  of  whom  he  could  ask  the  essential 
question.  He  walked  on,  therefore,  and  in  the  alleyway 
beneath  the  jimcrack  bridge  discovered  a  greaser  of  sorts 
sitting  with  a  sweat-rag  muffler  tied  loosely  about  his  neck 
to  smoke  upon  the  sill  of  an  open  doorway.  O'Hagan 


150  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

perceived  a  vista  of  dirtiness  and  the  engine-room  ;  but 
halted  to  ask  for  Mr.  Tipton. 

"  The  mate,"  said  the  man  without  removing  his  pipe 
or  relaxing  his  attitude,  "is  in  'is  room  .  .  .  uvver  alley- 
way— port  side." 

O'Hagan  moved  on  and,  coming  to  an  iron  door  bearing 
the  legend  "1st  Mate,"  knocked.  A  voice  cried  out — 
''  Yes — come  in,"  and  O'Hagan  entered. 

That  is  to  say  he  stepped  over  the  sill  and  stood  on  the 
other  side  of  the  iron,  but  a  man  already  occupied  the 
whole  available  dinginess,  brushing  with  his  elbows  at  his 
boundaries.  He  leaned  upon  a  small  desk  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, writing  rapidly.  He  smoked  like  a  chimney,  and 
so  did  his  lamp  which  was  alight,  glowing  in  a  halo  which 
twisted  and  changed  colour  in  the  draught  which  came 
from  an  open  port. 

The  man  appeared  to  be  engaged  upon  his  cargo  register, 
a  book  as  grimy  as  the  room.  He  glanced  round  and 
snapped — "  Want  me  ?  "  searched  his  visitor's  face  and 
added  in  surly  crescendo,  "  I'm  busy  .  .  .  can't  you  see 
I'm  up  to  my  neck  in  it  ?  " 

The  man's  cheeks  were  shaven,  but  he  wore  a  moustache 
and  beard  trimmed  in  the  fashion  known  as  "goatee." 
His  hair  was  sandy,  his  beard  rather  more  red,  and  his 
eyebrows  bristled  in  a  way  which  partly  screened  his  eyes. 

O'Hagan  had  succeeded  in  establishing  a  footing  within 
this  den  and  had  closed  the  door. 

"  Are  you  the  mate  ?  "  he  asked ;  "  Mr.  Tipton.  .  .  ." 

The  mate  seemed  to  resent  the  question.  Perhaps  he 
scented  an  applicant  from  the  cultured  ranks  of  swelldom, 
one  of  those  la-di-da  persons  who  sometimes  get  on  a  ship's 
article  .  At  all  events  he  answered  with  point — "  That's 
me,"  and  added  in  a  growling  undertone — "  What  d'you 
want  .  .  .  I'm  not  takin'  on  hands.  Save  your  time  and 
mine  if  that's  what  you're  after.  .  .  ." 

"  My  name  is  O'Hagan,"  the  younger  man  commenced. 
"  I  think  you  should  know 

"  That  puts  me  no  nearer,"  William  Tipton  announced, 
but  without  a  smile. 

"  I  took  over  the  command  of  the  Sphinx  after  you 
left  her,"  O'Hagan  explained,  "  and  Jimmy  Barlow  tells 
me " 

William  Tipton  withdrew  his  pipe  and  looked  sourly  at 
his  visitor. 


WILLIAM  TIPTON  151 

"  Then  you,"  he  sneered,  "  were  in  the  Sphinx  when  she 
went  down.  Pity  you  didn't  see  me  before  you  took  charge 
of  her.  .  .  .  I  might  have  been  able  to  tell  you  something." 
He  closed  his  cargo  book,  pointed  to  the  small  locker  and 
said,  "  Sit.  I  have  a  few  minutes." 

He  climbed  into  his  bunk  and  sat  amidst  the  tumbled 
coats  and  blankets,  his  legs  dangling. 

"  Not  much  room  here,"  he  said  in  his  slow,  sneering 
fashion.  "  Bare  room  to  swing  your  arms,  let  alone  a  cat. 
Stinks,  too.  .  .  .  That's  bilge  water.  We're  supposed  to 
get  fat  on  it.  ...  I'd  like  to  serve  it  up  to  my  owners 
for  soup — smell  thrown  in.  That  'ud  coil  'em  up.  .  .  . 
Beggars  can't  be  choosers,  though.  That's  a  notion  to 
remember.  If  I'd  remembered  I  wouldn't  be  here  now. 
...  I  would  be  sailin'  the  Sphinx  or  at  the  bottom  with 
her.  .  .  . 

"  So  you  know  Jimmy  Barlow  ?  "  he  continued,  head 
cocked.  "  Funny  sort  of  a  world,  this.  If  anybody  had 
asked  me  what  Jimmy  Barlow  would  have  done  when  they 
altered  the  Act  and  put  a  deckload  on  her,  I  should  have 
said  '  He'll  quit.' 

"  He  saw  the  dido  she  cut — yet  he  sticks  on  ...  shows 
how  much  we  know.  .  .  .  Guess  there's  more  in  that  than 
meets  the  eye.  ...  I  shouldn't  wonder,  mind,  if  Jimmy 
Barlow  expected  to  get  command  of  her  .  .  .  but  Jimmy 
Barlow  hadn't  a  red — and  you  came  along.  Lord  !  I 
could  smile." 

He  emitted  a  thin  chuckle,  but  his  eyes  remained  without 
laughter — "  An'  you,"  he  suggested,  "  I  s'pose — put  in 
your  dollars  in  her." 

O'Hagan  explained  that  he  had. 
The  mate's  eyebrows  seemed  to  smile. 
'  Got  it  out  ?  "  he  questioned. 
'  Not  yet." 
'  Expect  to  ?  " 

4  By  hook  or  by  crook — yes." 
'  I  could  smile,"  commented  Mr.  William  Tipton. 
O'Hagan  flushed  as  was  his  fashion  in  circumstances 
such  as  these.     He  felt  as  a  boy  feels  who  is  guyed. 

"  I  don't  say  that  without  meaning  it,"  he  threw  back. 
"  A  man  isn't  dead  because  he  is  down.  I'll  make  them 
pay  up  if  I  sink  every  farthing  I  have  in  the  world.  No 
man  robs  me  with  impunity.  No  man.  ..." 

Again  came  the  sneering  comment  of  William  Tipton — 


152  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Who's  saying  anything  about  men  ?  " 

"  I  wish "  O'Hagan  commenced  and  halted  as  the 

other  growled. 

"  Pour  water  in  one  hand  and  wish  in  the  other — see 
which  is  full  first.  ..." 

"  I  admit  I've  had  a  facer,"  said  O'Hagan,  "  but  I'm 
not  likely  to  sit  still  under  it." 

"  That  so  ?  " 

"  You  seem  inclined  to  uphold  the  beasts,"  O'Hagan 
offered  hotly. 

"  What  beasts  ?  " 

"  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co." 

William  Tipton  withdrew  his  pipe  and  spat  upon  the  deck. 

"  That's  a  name,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  use  ...  it 
stinks.  ..."  He  blew  a  cloud  as  though  he  would 
smother  it.  "  It  stinks  worse  than  that  fer-saken  bilge- 
water  of  ourn.  .  .  .  I'd  like,"  he  growled,  eyebrows 
twitching,  "  to  sit  the  Board  o'  Trade  in  this  room  fer  a 
month.  .  .  .  I'd  like  to  put  the  Port  o'  London  and 
Swansea  San-itary  and  Med-i-cal  Au-thorities  in  this 
cabin  with  them,  and  I'd  like  tew  screw  down  the  ports 
and  ventilators  on  'em — same  as  they  are  on  me  at  sea. 
.  .  .  I'd  like  to  make  a  blackhole  for  'em — like  Calcutta 
did  .  .  .  might  get  somethin'  done  that  road  .  .  .  never 
get  it  done  any  other.  ..." 

O'Hagan  stared.  The  transition  was  so  sudden,  the 
sneering  accents  so  charged  with  venom,  the  twisting 
eyebrows  so  competent  to  point  behind  each  hissing 
sentence. 

"  Someone's  got  to  die — if  you  want  things  altered," 
came  red-hot  from  the  pot  of  his  wrath.  "  Permanent 
officials  are  there  to  keep  their  damned  salaries  permanent 
.  .  .  never  mind  us  ...  we  are  sailors  .  .  .  and  ship- 
owners seem  kind  of  treadin'  the  same  road  .  .  .  what 
d'you  think  ?  " 

He  ceased  as  suddenly  as  he  began.  His  energies  were 
concentrated  on  his  pipe.  He  pushed  with  one  finger  in 
the  bowl,  drawing  hard,  and  smoke  circled  in  the  dingy 
room  to  cloud  his  face. 

"  If  you  are  speaking  of  shipowners,  I'm  with  you," 
said  O'Hagan.  "  They  want  teaching." 

The  brows  of  William  Tipton  twinkled  through  the  smoke. 

"  When  the  devil  is  hungry  the  devil  eats  flies,"  he 
announced,  grimly  sardonic.  "  In  England  shipowners 


WILLIAM  TIPTON  153 

are  the  devil  and  we  are  the  flies.  They  jam  us  down 
with  conditions  no  other  living  man  would  endure.  If 
we  are  mailship  skippers  they  give  us  a  flood  of  printed 
instructions.  '  Be  careful,'  they  say ;  '  go  slow  in  fogs,  go 
slow  if  it's  thick  and  you  are  in  the  track  of  ships.  Mind 
your  eye  all  the  time  and  don't  you  forget  it,'  that's  the 
orders  .  .  .  but  if  you  go  slow  for  fog,  or  ice,  or  rain,  or 
snow,  they'll  say  nothing  to  you  for  being  late.  Only 
you'll  get  shifted.  Shifted  into  a  cargo  boat  and  some 
other  fellow  will  take  all  risks  with  the  ice.  .  .  .  Right ! 
We  are  the  flies.  ..." 

"  Pity  we  didn't  meet  eighteen  months  ago,"  he  threw 
out  as  O'Hagan  stared. 

"  It  isn't  too  late  now,"  came  swiftly  in  answer.  "  If 
you  care  to  join  me  and  go  for  them  say  the  word.  .  .  ." 

William  Tipton's  next  remark  seemed  to  suggest  that 
he  had  not  heard. 

"  Trained  in  the  Worcester  ? "  he  asked,  his  lids 
flickering  down. 

O'Hagan  bridged  the  space  and  nodded — "  Same  sort 
of  thing — only  we  cruised.  Australia  and  back." 

"  Cadet  ship,  eh — and  after  that  the  mail  service,  I 
s'pose  ?  " 

"Yes."t 

"  The  line  which  looks  on  accent  with  more  favour 

than "  his  pipe  conveyed  the  rest.  He  looked  at  his 

watch. 

"  The  Eastern  Mail,"  said  O'Hagan.  "  I  was  a  damned 
fool  to  leave  it." 

"  You  were,"  Tipton  acknowledged,  his  eyes  raking 
him,  "  and  now  you  want  a  berth,  I  s'pose  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  Still  suspended  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  can  put  you  in  as  bo'sun.  You'd  have  all  day  on, 
all  night  at  the  lamps,  mess  with  second  mate  .  .  . 
what  d'you  say  ?  " 

"  I'm  with  you." 

"  Sail  to-morrow  in  ballast  for  Swansea."  A  hooter 
sounded  somewhere  amidst  the  crowded  streets  of  Lime- 
house  and  the  ship's  bell  marked  the  hour  by  two  strokes. 

"  We  are  goin'  to  Alexandria  with  coal  .  .  .  then,  up 
the  Black  Sea — somewhere  for  grain  ...  so  they  say. 
We  might  strike  some  plan  .  ,  .  think  it  out  ?  " 


154  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  No— I'm  decided." 

The  mate  slid  from  his  bunk  and  stood  once  more. 

"  Guess  it's  turn  to,"  he  said  in  his  slower  drawl.  "  Be 
down  to-morrow  an'  I'll  get  you  signed  on." 

He  opened  the  door  with  a  clang,  iron  upon  iron,  blew 
a  whistle  and  said,  looking  down  the  alleyway — "  Turn 
to,  there.  Down  below  aft  an'  get  on  with  your  washing." 

O'Hagan  marched  down  the  ladder  stirred  by  the  fact 
that  without  in  the  least  expecting  it  he  had  engaged  in 
the  collier  with  the  rainbow  funnel. 

So  the  world  hums  when  you  reach  the  Isle  of  Dogs. 


CHAPTER  IV 


MILESTONES 

Now  O'Hagan  was  not  destined  to  sample  the  lees  in 
this  boat  with  the  rainbow  funnel.  In  spite  of  his  jubi- 
lation as  he  descended  the  gangway,  another  factor  stirred 
which  would  render  it  stupid  to  take  service  as  a  com- 
posite personality.  At  the  moment,  of  course,  he  did  not 
know  it.  A  man  who  has  spent  months  seeking  work  is 
so  uplifted  by  the  fact  of  success  that  he  does  not  consider 
second  string  chances.  Yet  they  come. 

The  position  he  had  obtained  meant  five  pounds, 
perhaps  five  pounds  ten  a  month  ;  and  O'Hagan,  who  had 
been  accustomed  in  the  past  to  give  orders  to  a  person 
recognised  as  Serang,  knew  no  more  of  the  duties  required 
of  a  "  bo'sun-carpenter-lamptrimmer  "  than  he  did  of 
the  path  to  the  stars. 

At  the  moment  he  was  unconscious  of  this  fact.  It  had 
not  struck  him.  He  remembered  that  Tipton  had  pro- 
posed it  because  of  his  connection  with  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co. 
It  was  evident,  too,  that  Tipton  had  no  love  for  that  firm. 
How  he  had  squirmed  at  the  name  ! 

Not  in  a  polished  fashion  either.  Queer  old  chap  ! 
Well,  it  certainly  would  be  strange  if  they  happened  to  be 
shipmates  ;  stranger  still  if  they  could  work  out  some 
plan  which  would  bring  Sharum  up  with  a  round  turn 
..."  make  him  fork  out,  by  Jove  !  every  penny  we  have 
invested." 

O'Hagan  whistled.  It  could  be  done.  He  was  in- 
clined to  crow  and  dance  down  there  on  the  dock  sill ; 
then  wiftly  upon  the  throb  of  that  glorious  headiness 
came  the  recollection  of  Jimmy  Barlow's  note  and  mes- 
sage. He  had  promised  to  take  them  to  Mrs.  Jim,  and 
on  examination,  he  saw  that  her  address  was  Panton 
Street.  A  thoroughfare  this  at  the  corner  of  East  India 
Dock  Road  and  Bearsted  Road — E. 

That  sobered  him  as  perhaps  nothing  else  could.     It 


156  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

put  him  in  touch  with  the  other  side  of  the  tragedy.  It 
set  him  thinking.  He  wondered  whether  there  would  be 
a  scene.  He  need  have  had  no  fear,  for  Mrs.  Jim  was  of 
the  class  which  does  not  air  its  hurts,  does  not  whimper, 
does  not  plead  or  bully  for  alms  ;  but  seeks  in  some  way 
• — God  and  His  Regents  know  how — to  keep  the  \volf  from 
the  flock. 

Panton  Street,  E.,  does  not  let  apartments  to  people 
with  full  purses  ;  it  ministers,  indeed,  to  those  for  whom 
its  neighbour,  Bearsted  Road,  is  too  costly.  You  may 
hire  a  house,  or  a  part  of  a  house,  or  a  garret  in  Panton 
Street,  and  you  may  live  in  what  seclusion  you  can  com- 
pass ;  or  you  may  dree  your  weird  with  all  Panton  Street 
looking  on. 

And  here  lived  the  little  lady  who  once  had  been  a 
governess  and  now  was  the  wife  of  one  of  England's 
Bottle-fillers ;  a  man  down  on  his  luck  so  deep  that  he 
dared  not  tell  her  he  was  sailing. 

When  he  got  "  out  there,"  he  would  "  send  for  the 
wife  and  the  kids;  meantime,  put  it  right  for  me,  and 
give  them  this."  Those  were  his  last  words,  and  they 
troubled  O'Hagan  greatly  as  he  climbed  the  dark  stairs 
to  reach  Mrs.  Jim's  room. 

She  had  but  one,  and  here  slept  and  worked  the  game 
little  woman  who  would  not  whine.  Here,  too,  slept  her 
boy  and  two  girls  when  the  candle  had  guttered  and 
fingers  were  stiff.  No  charity  bowls  of  soup  on  this  hori- 
zon. No  visitors  from  the  church  yonder,  nor  from 
the  chapel  across  the  way.  No  one  cognisant  of  the  straits 
of  Mrs.  Jim  but  Mrs.  Jim  and  her  children.  Even 
Jimmy  Barlow  was  not  versed  in  the  sublime  deceptions 
which  were  practised  ;  but  he  saw  his  wife  grow  thin,  saw 
that  her  eyes  were  rimmed  with  red,  and  went  his  way 
challenging  the  aristocrats  of  the  labour  world,  who  ring- 
fence  their  house  of  cards  lest  it  fall  and  crush  those  who 
are  inside. 

Vae  metis  ! 

The  conquered  are  those  who  have  no  trade  union 
ticket,  who  have  no  loud-voiced  agitator  at  their  back  to 
air  their  grievances  in  the  House  ;  who  are  unbanded, 
standing  each  one  on  his  own  two  feet  to  fight  the  battle  of 
Life  ;  who  have  no  vote — if  votes  be  of  service  in  a  world 
so  wantonly  hedged  against  the  weak — who  are  unknown 
by  charity  organisations  and  will  remain  unknown  because 


MILESTONES  157 

though  beggars  in  all  verity,  there  still  remains  to  them — 
pride. 

Mrs.  Jim,  when  at  length  O'Hagan  reached  her  altitude 
— it  was  near  the  stars,  and  often  the  playground  of  East 
End  cats — did  not  rush  to  dust  a  chair  for  him  with  her 
apron,  nor  did  she  sniff  and  apologise  for  the  room. 
Three  women  were  at  work  in  it  beneath  a  dim  skylight. 
They  were  building  shirts  for  Englishmen  and  youths — 
the  shirts  of  Tom  Hood's  song,  if  it  be  not  lost  to  us  in 
these  days  of  sham  and  subterfuge,  and  on  the  hob,  in  spite 
of  the  sultriness,  a  kettle  spouted  steam,  and  tea — tea  of 
the  deadliest — stood  to  stew. 

That  was  their  sustenance.  It  kept  the  woman  and  her 
two  girls  alive.  They  did  not  know  that  it  also  kept  them 
drunk.  They  drank  it  to  keep  them  working  until  the 
candle  guttered,  stitching  far  into  the  night ;  then  tea  and 
kettle,  and  mother  and  girls,  sought  sleep  .  .  .  sleep 
amidst  the  roar  of  one  of  London's  great  arteries  ;  sleep 
amidst  the  smoke  clouds  of  East  London ;  sleep  till  the 
ragged  cock,  which  lived  in  an  upturned  barrel  with  three 
gaunt  hens,  sent  forth  his  challenge  to  the  sun,  and  the 
Isle  of  Dogs,  which  is  so  near,  blared  drearily  its  chorus  of 
horns. 

Three  women — one  in  all  truth,  womanly,  and  "  with 
eyelids  heavy  and  red  "  ;  the  other  two,  girls,  slim,  young, 
delicate,  fragile,  suddenly  nipped  by  events,  brought 
swiftly  from  the  country  they  knew  and  lodged  here — 
school  forgotten,  friends  lost,  the  woods  and  lanes  of 
Merrie  England  a  dream  which  faded. 

Their  trust  in  Dad  was  shaken.  Perhaps.  Who  can 
assign  and  portray  limits  to  the  premonition  of  youth. 
Out  of  the  void  they  had  faced  with  friendly  and  careless 
grace  had  sprung  a  blow  which  stung.  Whispered  com- 
ment had  touched  their  ears.  It  hinged  on  the  word 
"  drink."  Dad,  who  was  their  idol,  was  assailed  by  that 
phrase.  They  scarcely  knew  the  meaning  of  it,  yet  it 
shadowed  their  lives.  They  saw  their  little  home  follow 
in  a  sequence  of  disaster,  through  which  Dad  shrugged  and 
shouldered  and  occasionally  grew  harsh. 

They  saw  that  he  no  longer  went  to  sea.  They  heard 
there  were  reasons  which  kept  him  on  shore.  They  learned 
to  quake.  And  here,  in  Panton  Street,  the  blare  of  East 
India  Dock  Road  in  their  ears,  they  learned  new  lessons. 

They  learned  that  food  was  scarce  ;    that  it  would  be 


158  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

necessary  to  work  long  hours  for  a  few  pence.  They 
saw  their  brother  go  out  to  act  as  errand  boy  for  a  neigh- 
bouring grocer.  They  discovered  that  he  slept  out  and 
that  Dad  could  no  longer  afford  to  keep  two  rooms.  .  .  . 
They  were  young  girls  who  understood  the  delights  of 
green  fields,  of  hockey — and  they  were  here  ! 

Can  you  see  them  ?  O'Hagan  was  compelled.  It  gave 
him  pain.  It  took  all  the  sting  out  of  the  misery  he  had 
touched.  He  recognised  that  he  stood  in  the  presence  of 
women  who  fought  with  death  ;  that  Jimmy  Barlow  had  so 
stood,  and  that  now  he  was  gone  on  a  forlorn  hope  which 
might,  or  might  not,  find  him  quittance.  That  is  what 
he  saw — and,  in  truth,  it  sobered  him. 

The  dim  light  of  a  radiance  which  scarcely  touched 
the  whirling  sultriness  of  the  Isle  of  Dogs  streamed  in 
at  a  skylight  which  stood  above  the  table  at  which  the 
three  worked.  O'Hagan  brought  a  touch  of  the  outer 
air  with  him  and  they  looked  round  expectant.  Visitors, 
he  supposed,  catching  the  note,  rarely  climbed  here.  He 
questioned  whether  they  would  be  welcome  and  said, 
with  an  effort  which  astonished  him,  "  I  came  at  your 
husband's  request,  Mrs.  Barlow,  to  tell  you  that 

Then  he  saw  in  her  face  that  he  could  not  break  it  thus, 
and  halted  while  she  moved  from  the  table  to  meet  him. 

"  My  name  is  O'Hagan,"  he  recommenced  in  explana- 
tion. "  They  told  me  downstairs  I  should  find  you  here." 
He  did  not  name  the  slattern  who  had  directed  him. 
Enough  that  he  was  here.  He  continued — "  Your 
husband  was  mate  of  the  Sphinx  with  me — you  remember  ? 
And  now  he  asks  me  to  see  you  and  to  give  you  this 
note." 

He  handed  the  letter  while  the  wan  eyes  of  the  woman 
read  him  page  by  page.  He  shivered  under  her  scrutiny. 
He  remembered  that  he  was  dressed  for  dockwalloping 
and  imagined  that  cloaked  gentleness.  But  the  eyes  of 
the  woman  showed  no  alarm.  There  was  concern  in 
them,  then  sorrow,  followed  presently  by  shock. 

She  said  very  softly — "  Where  is  he  ?  "  then,  as  she 
tore  the  envelope — "  Why  didn't  he  come  himself  ?  "  and 

with  a  swift  uptake  of  breath "  There's  nothing  wrong, 

is  there — no  accident  .  .  .  or ?  " 

The  two  girls  came  nearer,  cowering  suddenly. 

"  No — no,"  O'Hagan  gave  back.  "  He  is  well  and  sends 
his  love.  He  couldn't  come — that  is  all  .  .  because 


MILESTONES  159 

.  .  .  oh,  well !  the  letter  will  tell  you,  I  expect.  Won't 
you  read  it  ?  Don't  mind  me.  ..." 

Then  he  ceased  speaking,  because  it  became  plain  that 
Mrs.  Jim's  attention  was  concentrated  on  the  letter  she 
drew  out,  and  that  a  slip  of  paper  which  fell  from  it 
fluttered  to  the  floor  at  her  feet  unheeded. 

It  looked  strangely  like  a  cheque.  O'Hagan  prayed 
it  might  be.  It  was  folded,  and  something  suggestive 
of  a  water  mark  showed  through  it  in  a  dark  wash  at  the 
back.  O'Hagan  would  have  picked  it  up ;  but  held  off 
as  the  elder  of  the  two  children  approached.  He  had  a 
sense  that  presently  there  would  be  a  scene.  It  flustered 
him.  He  would  have  run  away  ;  but  he  dared  not  until 
he  knew  that  Jimmy  had  been  able  to  do  the  right  thing 
by  these  poor  souls.  .  .  .  And  he  stood  there  waiting, 
expectant,  watching  the  expression  in  Mrs.  Jim's  eyes, 
the  increasing  pallor,  if  that  be  possible  where  no  colour 
lurked,  and  wondering  when  she  would  break  the  silence. 

She  broke  it  quite  calmly ;  the  attitude  of  one  whom 
calamity,  great  or  small,  no  longer  can  bend. 

"  Elsie,'  she  said,  ignoring  O'Hagan,  "  Daddy's  sailed. 
.  .  .  He's  going  to " — she  referred  to  the  letter — "  to 
Valparaiso.  He  sends  his  love  to  you,  Elsie,  and  to 
Mamie  too,  and  he  hopes  to  see  us  all  before  long.  ..." 

She  gazed  at  the  dim  skylight  which  lighted  the  garret. 
Her  eyes  were  soft.  A  suggestion  of  unsteadiness  showed 
at  the  corners  of  her  mouth  and  the  two  girls  looked  shyly 
at  O'Hagan. 

On  the  table  was  a  heap  of  white,  and  amidst  it  stood 
a  sewing-machine,  some  little  boxes  of  buttons  and  tape — 
the  whole  apparatus  of  the  seamstress  who  spins  shirts 
as  she  spins  her  shroud.  Nothing  heroic.  Nothing  vivid, 
blaring  or  theatrical.  Commonplace  sewing,  that  is  all. 

Mrs.  Jim  had  steadied  her  lips  and  now  looked  at 
O'Hagan,  who  still  contemplated  that  cheque-like  scrap 
on  the  floor.  There  were  many  snippets  to  give  it  company 
and  a  dusting- sheet  spread  beside  the  table  helped  to 
keep  it  hid.  That  is  why  O'Hagan  watched  it — but  he 
dared  not  break  the  silence  by  movement. 

"  How  long  does  it  take  to  get  to  Valparaiso  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Jim  as  she  faced  him. 

He  answered  without  subterfuge,  judging  it  were  best — 

"  In  this  case  perhaps  three  or  four  months  ...  it  is 
rather  too  difficult  to  say." 


160  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Why  in  this  case  ?  " 

"  Because  the  boat  is  not  very  large  and  he  will  have 
to  hug  the  coast." 

"  That  means  keep  near  the  land,  doesn't  it,  Captain 
O'Hagan  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  she  a  steamer  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Is  my  husband  the  captain  ?  " 

"  Yes — he  is  taking  out  a  new  boat  you  see — straight 
from  the  yard." 

"  And  why  does  he  sign  his  letter  'Enery  Tompson  '  ?  " 
asked  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Jim,  her  eyelids  flickering. 

"  Because,"  said  O'Hagan,  quite  sure  that  now  he  faced 
the  worst,  "  he  is  suspended  and  can't  use  his  own  ticket 
.  .  .  so — well,  you  see,  if  a  man's  in  a  hole  he  has  to 
do  the  best  he  can  for  himself  and — and  his  wife  and 
children.  There's  nothing  else.  ..." 

"  So  he  had  to  take  another  name  ?  "  questioned  Mrs. 
Jim,  and  the  chair  she  sat  on  creaked  under  her. 

"  Yes."  Then,  as  a  pause  ensued,  O'Hagan  added — 
"  Of  course,  that  was  the  reason  he  could  not  come  up 
to  say  good-bye  .  .  .  come  near  you  at  all,  in  fact.  He 
was  afraid  some  one  might  see  him  and  report — for,  of 
course,  everyone  has  enemies,"  he  ended  lamely. 

But  Mrs.  Jim  was  not  interested  in  the  question  of  her 
husband's  alias.  She  moved  at  a  tangent,  to  consider 
his  safety — as  though  it  were  of  any  use,  now  that  the 
Casa  Blanco,  had  started  on  her  way  to  the  high  seas, 
discussing  that. 

"  Is  the  boat  very  small  ?  "  she  asked,  her  eyes  lifted 
to  read. 

O'Hagan  was  constrained  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

"  She  is  not  very  big,"  he  answered,  then  made  a  dive 
hoping  to  break  away  from  this  for  all  time.  "  Look 
here  !  he  exclaimed,  stooping  to  recover  the  paper  he  had 
watched  with  so  much  concern.  "  I  believe  you  dropped 
this.  I  think  it  came  out  when  you  opened  the  letter.  .  .  . 
By  Jove  !  it  looks  like  a  cheque  or  something.  It's  yours, 
anyhow  ...  do  see  what  it  is.  .  .  ." 

He  handed  it  and  retired  again  to  his  corner  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed. 

Mrs.  Jim  took  the  paper,  opened  it  and  read.  She  did 
not  speak,  but  her  face  for  a  moment  flamed,  then  again 


MILESTONES  161 

became  white.  She  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  her  gaze 
settled  upon  the  two  children.  But  no  words  came,  and 
quite  suddenly  she  seemed  to  droop  in  her  chair.  She  sank 
and  would  have  fallen  had  not  O'Hagan  reached  her  side. 

The  two  children  crowded  in  now,  the  younger  of  them 
crying,  the  elder — she  was  not  twelve — on  the  edge  of 
tears  ;  but  O'Hagan  called  out  sharply  for  aid  and  in  a 
moment  they  were  acting  under  orders. 

"  Loosen  her  dress,  Miss  Elsie,"  he  had  gathered  their 
names  from  the  letter  Mrs.  Jim  had  read  out.  "  Mamie, 
run  and  get  some  water,  brandy  if  there  is  any  in  the 
house  ..." 

He  laid  the  limp  body  he  supported  on  the  floor  beneath 
the  skylight  and  climbed  the  table  to  open  still  wider  the 
sash.  But  the  fasteners  were  so  set  that  this  was  im- 
possible. He  returned  to  the  floor  anathematising  all 
builders,  seized  a  shirt  and  directed  Elsie  to  fan. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  whispered.  "  She  has  fainted — don't 
be  frightened." 

He  was  quaking  himself  and  knew  it. 

Elsie  waved  her  fan  while  he  kneeled  listening.  Her 
eyes  were  full,  but  she  worked  with  the  method  of  a  machine. 
She  stared  at  the  twitching  features  wondering,  full  of 
a  strange  awe.  Why  had  Dad  gone  away  as  he  had  ? 
What  had  he  done  that  he  was  compelled  to  change  his 
name  ?  .  .  .  She  did  not  believe  he  had  done  anything. 
If  he  had  Mummie  wouldn't  love  him — and  she  did.  .  .  . 
She  leaned  forward  suddenly  and  clung  to  O'Hagan's  arm 
— "  Oh,  please,  please  don't  let  her  die,"  she  whispered. 
"  I  won't  grumble  any  more,  I  won't  ...  I  won't  .  .  . 
please  make  her  look  up  and  say  she  isn't  going  to  die." 

"Fan,  my  child  ...  fan!  "  O'Hagan  urged.  "Don't 
crowd  her,  but  give  her  air  ..." 

Water  was  used  because  brandy  would  have  been  diffi- 
cult to  obtain  by  a  child  of  nine  years  not  born  to  the  ways 
of  slumland.  A  shirt  made  air  because  no  window  qua 
window  existed  in  this  garret  housing  three  lives  ;  because 
of  all  things  granted  us  of  heaven,  air  in  Panton  Street 
is  as  difficult  to  find  as  luxury  or  restraint  among  its 
inhabitants. 

That,  at  all  events,  was  O'Hagan's  view  of  the  position, 
and  being  a  sailor,  accustomed  to  give  orders,  the  checks, 
facile  and  absurd  as  they  were,  in  no  way  caused  irritation. 

B.F.  M 


162  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

He  was  engrossed,  and  in  ten  minutes,  by  some  chance  of 
other,  he  had  Mrs.  Jim  sitting  up  again,  the  children 
hugging  her. 

He  wanted  to  swear  very  badly,  he  examined  the  sash 
fastening  instead.  It  was  an  abominable  and  subtle 
contrivance  to  produce  stuffiness.  Had  the  garret  been 
his  he  would  have  let  air  into  it,  in  the  fashion  he  adopted 
with  the  fanlight  at  his  own  dear  Deodars.  Long  ago, 
that !  By  Jove,  yes — quite  a  century  .  .  .  and  while  he 
was  ricking  his  neck  over  a  skylight,  which  could  only  be 
opened  with  the  aid  of  a  crowbar,  Mrs.  Jim  and  the  children 
made  hay,  as  he  put  it.  He  gave  them  time  to  toss  a 
whole  field.  Whether  they  did  it  or  no  he  was  uncertain, 
then  someone  called  him  by  name — "  Captain  O'Hagan," 
and  he  turned  round. 

Mrs.  Jim  was  sitting  up,  wan  and  very  weary,  but  with 
a  smile  which  did  him  good.  She  said,  dabbing  at  her 
hair — "  You  made  me — rather  wet.  ..." 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  O'Hagan  apologised,  "  I'm  afraid  I 
am  a  bit  clumsy  at  this  sort  of  thing  ...  I  say,  but  you 
are  all  right,  aren't  you — better,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes — yes.  It  was  very  stupid  of  me  ...  it  was 
about  a  cheque,  or  something,  wasn't  it  ?  I  haven't  seen 
one  for  ...  so  long  you  know  .  .  .  that  it — it  took  my 
breath  away." 

"  It  is  rather  a  fat  one,"  O'Hagan  smiled,  perceiving 
trouble  at  the  door  and  moving  to  descend  the  stairs. 

"Very  fat?  I— I  am  still  bewildered  .  .  ."  she 
pressed  her  forehead  with  unsteady  hands. 

"  It  is  a  cheque  on  the  London  and  Provincial  Bank  for 
one  hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds,  Mrs.  Barlow  .  .  . 
It  is  drawn  by  the  builder  of  your  husband's  boat  .  .  . 
the  one  he  is  taking  out,"  he  explained,  "  and  if  I  were  you 
I  should  get  it  paid  in — somewhere,"  he  stumbled  here, 
aware  that  the  wife  of  Jimmy  Barlow  had,  in  all  likelihood, 
no  banking  account,  and  into  his  confusion  there  came  the 
strained  voice  which  said — 

"  A  hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds  !  "  Then  after  a 
break — "  Do  you  think  he  could  spare  it  ?  " 

"  Easily,"  O'Hagan  announced,  with  a  decision  which 
went  far  to  stiffen  her.  "  He  will  get  two  hundred  for  the 
trip,  and  the  rest  is  to  be  paid  when  he  reaches  Valparaiso. 
Now,"  he  persuaded  her,  "  let  me  help  you.  I  know 
Jimmy — we  all  called  him  Jimmy — wished  me  to  do  so. 


MILESTONES  163 

I  think  that  cheque  ought  to  be  in  a  bank.  ...  It  isn't 
quite  safe  here — do  you  think  ?  .  .  .  and,  if  you  feel 
strong  enough  I  will  charter  a  cab  and  take  you  up  before 
it  closes.  .  .  ."  He  referred  to  the  bank. 

But  Mrs.  Jim  would  not  hear  of  this  extravagance, 
"  The  trams  pass,"  she  said,  "  and  if  you  really  can  spare 
the  time  I  shall  be  most  grateful." 

"  Me,  too,"  Mamie  interjected,  hugging  her  sister's  arm. 

"  Mightn't  we  all  go  ?  "  Elsie  urged,  her  eyes  round  and 
luminous  at  the  mere  mention  of  so  great  a  treat. 

"  Of  course,"  O'Hagan  decided,  "  all  or  none.  It  will 
do  you  good,  and,  if  I  may  make  a  suggestion,  I  should 
advise  a  week  in  the  country.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh  !  Let's — let's — Mummie,  do.  And  it's  May  you 
know,  and  the  hedges  will  be  out !  " 

"  Bluebells,  too,"  O'Hagan  trailed.     "  Think  of  it— 

"  Bluebells  !     Oh,  Mummie — we  may,  mayn't  we  ?  " 

"  Come  and  help  Mummie  bank  the  money  first," 
O'Hagan  persuaded.  "  That  will  take  quite  a  long  time. 
We  can  decide  as  we  go." 

And  presently  they  started,  two  pale  children  accom- 
panied by  their  not  strong  mother,  for  the  first  outing 
which  had  fallen  to  their  lot  since  January. 

Of  course  it  is  apparent  that  O'Hagan  had  very  little 
time  to  resolve  his  own  particular  misery  during  this 
afternoon  ;  nor  to  consider  the  duties  he  had  undertaken 
in  that  boat  with  the  gorgeous  funnel.  Yet  he  was  like  a 
boy  in  the  happiness  which  had  become  his.  That  five 
or  five  pounds  ten  a  month  he  was  to  receive  somehow 
became  mixed  with  figures  of  much  greater  value.  His 
billet,  too,  when  he  did  not  think  of  it,  magically  assumed 
an  air  and  importance  unwarranted  by  fact.  He  was 
cock-a-hoop  in  spite  of  what  he  called  his  dockwalloping 
toggery,  master  of  ceremonies  at  the  bank,  host  at  the 
tea  rooms  which  presently  gave  them  rest  and  nourish- 
ment. 

The  sun  smiled  down  upon  them,  through  smoke  clouds 
be  it  said ;  the  world  became  possible  as  a  place  of  resi- 
dence ;  especially  out  there  in  a  country  carpetted  by 
bluebells  and  anemones,  where  the  hedges  "  were  out," 
and  whither  they  had  decided  to  vanish  as  soon  as  their 
week  was  up. 

It  smiled  on  that  careful  soul  who  was  Jimmy  Barlow's 
helpmeet  and  it  smiled  on  Jimmy  Barlow's  tug  as  he 

M  8 


164  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

headed  down  Sea  Reach — that  wonderful  Casa  Blanco, 
which  had  emerged  from  a  builder's  yard  at  the  very 
moment  when  the  Barlow  homestead  had  crumbled  to  a 
garret  in  Panton  Street  and  sixteen  hours  of  daily  toil. 
The  Casa  Blanca  kicked  with  her  heels  as  she  passed 
Canvey  Island,  she  bowed  to  her  first  swell  there  and 
Jimmy  Barlow  extended  his  arms.  He  shot  his  linen. 

But  it  took  so  long  a  time  to  arrange  these  matters  that 
it  was  late,  nearly  eight  o'clock,  when  O'Hagan  reached 
that  palace  of  his,  known  as  the  Deodars  in  Glen  view  Road. 

A  thin  gleam  of  light  touched  the  windows  as  he  clanked 
down  the  pavement.  It  was  not  too  dark  to  see  that 
Lucy  stood  watching  his  approach,  nor  to  recognise  that 
she  moved  that  little  strip  of  orange  paper  we  call  a 
telegram  or  a  flimsy,  as  the  fancy  takes  us. 

He  came  the  faster  you  may  be  sure.  Lucy  stood  now 
in  the  doorway,  very  beautiful  to  consider,  very  dainty 
in  the  old,  old  trousseau  gown  Den  loved  so  well. 

"  It  arrived  hours  and  hours  ago,  oh,  dearest,"  she  sang 
merrily,  alluding  to  the  paper  she  held,  and  got  no  further, 
because  it  became  necessary  to  accept  his  salute.  And 
when  she  was  free  to  continue,  she  added — 

"  I  could  not  tell  him  where  you  were,  so  I  said  '  Will 
call  to-morrow  .  .  .  was  that  right  ?  " 

"  Perfectly." 

He  was  devouring  the  message  with  the  air  of  one  who 
is  still  incredulous.  His  eyes  saw  nothing  else.  It  was  a 
marvellous  bit  of  precision,  as  comforting  as  that,  by 
Jove,  which  hours  ago  he  had  brought  to  Mrs.  Jim.  It 
affected  him  in  like  manner.  It  gave  him  a  chance.  A 
glorious  and  wonderful  opportunity — the  thing  he  had 
fought  for,  prayed  for  and  despaired  of  finding. 

This  is  what  he  read — 

*'  Call  Oceanic  soon  as  possible  see  me  with  reference 
to  taking  command  new  steamer  building  Glasgow.  If 
out  to-day  wire  appointment  for  to-morrow.  WORSDALE." 

And  when  he  had  mastered  this,  O'Hagan  put  his  arm 
about  Lucy's  waist,  drew  her  to  him  and  took  three  steps 
in  waltz  time. 

"  Hurra  !  "  he  cried  out.     "  Hurra  !     Hurra  !  " 

Lucy's  hand  reached  his  lips  to  check  him — 

"  Kiddie's  asleep,  oh,  dearest !  "  she  whispered. 

Then  quite  suddenly  O'Hagan  released  her  and  said 
in  a  new  voice — 


MILESTONES  1G5 

"By  Jove!     I  forgot  .  .  ." 

"  Forgot  ?  "  she  echoed. 

"  Yes — I  shan't  be  able.  .  .  .  I've  engaged  to  go  in  a 
boat  with  a  rainbow  funnel — red,  white,  blue  and  a  few 
dots  and  splashes  thrown  in,"  he  particularised,  watching 
her.  "  And  it's  William  Tipton's  ship  ;  .  .  .  the  one  I 
went  up  about.  What  in  the  world  must  I  do  ?  " 

His  voice  had  fallen  away  to  a  whisper.  The  brisk, 
inspiriting  strain  was  gone.  He,  undeniably,  was  op- 
pressed— but  Lucy  smiled. 

"  Will  you  be  captain  of  William  Tipton's  ship,  Den  ?  " 

"  No — bo'sun — with  carpenter  and  lamp-trimmer's  jobs 
thrown  in." 

"  And  you  couldn't  take  me  with  you  ?  " 

"  You  !  " 

He  faced  her  puzzled. 

"  Me,"  she  nodded. 

"  No,"  he  shook  out.  "  Jove  !  I  had  forgotten 
that  .  .  ." 

Lucy's  arms  went  up  about  his  neck,  and  his,  following 
the  law,  found  rest  round  her  waist. 

"  Then  you  are  not  going  to  sail  as  bo'sun  in  a  boat 
with  a  rainbow  funnel,  oh  dearest,"  said  the  gentle  voice 
of  Lucy  O'Hagan,  "  and  to-morrow  you  are  going  to — 
town — to,"  she  dragged  this  out  with  delicious  insistence, 
"  to — see  Captain — Worsdale  .  .  .  aren't  you,  Den  ?  " 

And  very  naturally,  standing  as  they  were,  cheek  to 
cheek,  O'Hagan  said — "  Rather,"  which  is  exactly  what 
she  had  decided  he  must  say. 


CHAPTER  V 

A   PROBATIONER 

IN  spite  of  this  ready  decision,  O'Hagan  considered  it 
necessary  to  acquaint  Captain  Worsdale  with  the  mad 
plunge  he  had  taken  towards  expiation  by  shipping  in  a 
collier.  As  soon  as  they  met,  then,  on  the  following  day, 
he  opened  by  saying  that  he  had  promised  to  sail  in  a 
boat  with  a  rainbow  funnel,  and  did  not  quite  know  how 
to  get  out  of  it.  He  explained  that  the  mate  was  relying 
on  him  to  sign  on  at  noon,  added  that  he  objected  to 
making  difficulties  for  a  man  on  sailing  day,  then  halted, 
his  eyes  on  Captain  Worsdale. 

The  great  little  man  was  regarding  him  with  lifted 
bristles. 

"  You  will  do  as  you  think  best,  of  course,"  he  remarked, 
and  for  a  brief  moment  it  seemed  to  O'Hagan  that  the 
last  word  had  been  said.  Then  there  came  to  his  tongue 
with  a  flicker  of  humour — "  Faith,  sir !  you  have  me  on 
the  hip,"  and,  as  Worsdale  smiled,  "  but  you  are  too  big 
a  man  to  take  advantage  of  it." 

"  On  the  hip  !  "  Worsdale  brimmed.  "  Lord,  but  it's 
well  you  are  an  Irishman.  A  Scot  would  not  have  dared 
to  say  that ;  an  Englishman  couldn't.  On  the  hip  !  " 
he  chuckled  broadly,  then  with  swift  precision  became 
explanatory — "  I  have  no  opinion  of  colliers  as  a  means 
of  getting  a  man  out  of  a  mess.  They  are  born  in  a  mess, 
live  in  a  mess  and  die  in  a  mess,  how  then  could  they  get 
you  out  of  a  mess?  And  I  want  you  to  consider — for 
I  don't  think  that  even  now  you  recognise  just  exactly 
where  you  stand.  I  tell  you  your  name  is  on  the  Black 
List  .  .  .  the  Black  List  at  Lloyd's,  and  you  throw  it  off 
with  a  joke.  I  tell  you,  too,  that  I  have  been  at  some 
trouble  to  persuade  a  friend  of  mine  to  overlook  it  ... 
and  you  tell  me  you  are  thinking  of  taking  a  trip  as 
bo'sun  of  a  collier  .  .  ." 

O'Hagan  refused  to  come  in  here.  He  knew  Captain 
Worsdale. 


A  PROBATIONER  107 

"  I  grant  you,"  that  stern  friend  resumed,  "  the  skipper 
of  a  cargo-wallah  is  not  a  very  great  swell ;  but  I  know 
the  bo'sun-lamp-trimmer-carpenter-blacksmith  fellow  in  a 
collier  is  just  a  cat's-paw.  ...  In  all  probability  you 
would  be  the  dandy  artisan,"  he  expostulated,  rolling  the 
phrases,  "  detailed  by  Mr.  William  Tipton  to  put  the 
rainbow  on  the  funnel.  If  I  know  anything  at  all  of  life 
in  a  collier  I'm  quite  sure  you  would  be  the  fancy  man  to 
stencil  the  ship's  name  and  port  of  registry  on  her  life- 
belts and  buckets.  If  she  carries  boats,  which  I  question, 
you  would  be  permitted  to  clean  them  out  and  paint  the 
house-flag  on  their  bows.  ...  In  addition,  I'm  morally 
certain  you  would  have  charge  of  the  lamp-room,  and  the 
oil  and  the  wick — together  with  the  adze  and  maul  and 
two  cold-chisels  which  would  comprise  the  carpenter's 
outfit  .  .  .  and  you  would  be  busy  all  day,  and  if  the 
lamps  are  of  the  usual  collier  brand  you  would  be  busy 
all  night,  trimming  them.  And  every  soul  on  board," 
he  rapped  out,  "  from  the  skipper  to  the  boy  who  brushes 
his  boots,  would  winze  ye  for  a  fool." 

He  turned  towards  his  table  and  pivoted  back  again 
to  ask  in  his  very  soberest  English — 

"  I  suppose  you  have  told  Mrs.  O'Hagan  of  your 
alternative — well,  what  does  she  say  to  it  ?  " 

"  She  says  I  am  not  going  to  sail  in  a  boat  with  a  rain- 
bow funnel,  and  is  quite  sure  that  you,  sir,  will  .  .  ." 

"  Of  course  ...  of  course.  Mrs.  O'Hagan  knows  the 
difference  between  five  pounds  a  month  and  twenty- 
five,"  Worsdale  commented,  enjoying  himself  immensely. 
"  I  accepted  it  when  there  was  nothing  else  before  me," 
O'Hagan  pleaded.  "  I  was  at  the  end  of  things — and 
the  only  reason  I  have  for  speaking  to  you  of  it  now  is, 
that  William  Tipton  who  is  the  mate,  was  skipper  of  the 
Sphinx  before  I  joined  her.  He  left  because  he  con- 
sidered her  unfit  for  deckloads,  and  as  he  also  has  sunk 
four  or  five  hundred  pounds  in  her,  it  seemed  possibly  we 
might  hit  on  some  scheme  to  get  our  money  back." 

Worsdale  drew  a  tablet  under  his  hand  and  said — 
"  Do  you  mean  that  Tipton  found  her  dangerous  with 
this  deckload  ?  " 

"  She  came  in  swept,  sir.     If  it  had  not  gone,   she 
would  not  have  fetched  home." 
"  Where  was  he  bound  ?  " 
"  Hamburg  with  the  deckload,  Hull  with  the  rest." 


168  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Damnable  !  "  said  Captain  Worsdale,  Then  soberly, 
"  A  perfectly  scandalous  evasion  of  a  law  which  already 
verges  on  stupidity  as  applied  to  our  own  ports."  He 
wrote  several  sentences,  looked  up  and  said,  "  Give  me 
Tipton's  address,"  took  it  down  and  leaned  back  in  his 
chair — "  I  see  .  .  .  yes,  I  see,"  he  frowned,  staring  at 
the  notes,  then  glancing  up  at  O'Hagan  said — 

"  That  puts  the  matter  in  a  new  light.  I  can  see  the 
inducement.  Still,  I  think  you  had  better  not  consider 
it.  Your  money  is  gone.  So  is  William  Tipton's.  If 
anyone  could  get  it  back  Stephen  Hammond  is  the  man. 
There  isn't  a  trick  of  that  brood,"  he  adumbrated  the 
owners  of  the  Sphinx  here,  "  he  does  not  know.  It 
would  cost  you  more  money.  You  might  throw  away 
two  or  three  hundred  on  it,  and  be  no  nearer.  .  .  . 

*'  The  Sphinx  company  is  wound  up,  my  boy.  You 
may  receive  a  notification  to  that  effect  presently — 
perhaps  a  bill  of  your  share  of  the  costs  of  winding  up. 
Mr.  Tipton  will  get  the  same  .  .  .  and,  if  it  is  news  to 
you,  three  other  broken-down  ex-skippers  of  the  Sphinx, 
are  still,  for  aught  I  know,  seeking  how  to  withdraw  the 
sums  they  invested  in  her.  .  .  . 

"  They  resigned.  Put  it  so.  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co.  know 
how  to  make  resignation  an  alternative  for  dismissal. 
No  skipper  can  resist  that.  It  is  one  of  the  methods  by 
which  acquisitive  folk  climb  to  power  in  the  shipowning 
world,  one  of  the  tricks  that  put  a  stigma  on  shipowning 
— as  though  shipowning  per  se  were  villainous.  Chut ! 
Let  them  alone.  I  don't  like  the  notion  of  going  to  law 
with  these  folk.  .  .  . 

"  The  Associations  should  move  in  it.  They  should 
bring  pressure  to  bear — clean  out  their  house  and  make 
it  possible  for  a  man  to  invest  in  the  concern  which  is 
his  livelihood  without  this  devilish  system  of  exploitation 
which  harms  the  big  men  more  than  the  small.  I  tell 
you  there  are  some  kinds  of  fish  neither  you  nor  I  can 
handle  without  being  tainted  .  .  .  But  an  Association, 
acting  in  the  interests  of  all,  could  touch  it — and  bury  it." 
He  leaned  on  his  elbow  wratching  the  fire,  his  brow 
puckered,  a  look  of  intense  disgust  in  his  face.  For 
several  minutes  he  maintained  this  attitude,  then  glanced 
up — "  I,  too,  am  a  shipowner,"  he  said  parenthetically. 
"  If  I  could  see  my  way  to  smash  Sharums,  I  should  do  it 
with  real  zest ;  but  they  are  going  strong.  He's  a  shrewd 


A  PROBATIONER  169 

man,  yon,  and  the  boom  has  aided  him.  Incidentally 
the  Board  of  Trade  made  him  a  big  present  of  tonnage 
a  year  or  more  ago — and  he  knew  how  to  take  advantage 
of  it.  That's  competition.  Ou  aye  !  I  hear  he  has 
opened  a  London  office.  .  .  Someone  is  behind  him,  of 
course.  Someone  who  knows  a  keen  business  man  when 
he  sees  him,  and  is  strong  enough  to  push  him.  .  .  . 

"  That  is  the  curse  of  competition  in  unclean  hands. 
The  means  are  nothing  provided  you  reach  your  end. 
Jesuitical !  Well,  well — now  that  capital  is  handy  to 
him  perhaps  we  shall  hear  less  of  this  petty  thieving,  this 
inveigling  of  skippers,  persuading  them  to  invest  and  then 
pushing  them  into  the  dock." 

He  twisted  his  chair  and  closed  his  note-book,  saying 
over  his  shoulder,  "  Now,  I  am  going  to  be  busy.  What 
have  you  decided  ?  " 

"  To  take  your  advice,  sir." 

"  Good.  Then  here  is  the  address  of  my  friend.  See 
him  at  once  and  wire  Tipton  to  find  another  bo'sun." 

He  rose  and  held  out  his  hand,  saying  in  his  kindly 
fashion — 

"  This  is  your  chance,  my  boy.  Take  it  and  play  it 
for  all  you  are  worth.  My  friend  will  go  a  long  way  to 
meet  you  .  .  .  but  none  of  us  are  omnipotent  here.  If 
Lloyd's  make  a  dead  set  the  thing  becomes  more  diffi- 
cult. ...  I  tell  you  this  for  your  guidance.  It  is  a 
possibility  I  do  not  want  you  to  overlook.  If  pressure 
comes,"  he  concluded  with  a  touch  of  passion,  "  I  shall 
know  why.  .  .  and  we  have  decided  to  fight  it — 
Hammond  and  I.  Good  luck  to  you.  Pray  for  bad 
weather  and — go  in  and  win  that  star." 

The  star  seemed  very  visionary  and  remote  as  O'Hagan 
turned  into  the  throbbing  London  street.  It  danced 
before  him,  nevertheless,  conjured  up  by  the  trust  Wors- 
dale  reposed  in  him.  His  brain  took  fire  at  the  bare 
prospect  of  again  obtaining  command.  For  months  he 
had  been  as  one  numbed  by  long  exposure,  one  silenced 
by  the  hum  and  jangle  of  a  gale  which  had  forced  him 
to  his  knees  ;  but  now  hope  returned,  he  forgot  Worsdale's 
warning,  and  with  a  touch  of  ecstasy  strange  to  consider 
in  that  turmoil  of  moving  traffic,  sang  as  he  went  and 
longed  to  dance. 

He  had  youth  on  his  side,  hope,  strength  and  the 


170  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

worship  of  a  woman  "  too  good  for  him  by  half,"  as  the 
saying  goes.  Therefore  he  must  win.  Lloyd's  ?  Let 
Lloyd's  go  hang !  What  was  it  to.  them  or  to  any  soul  in 
the  world  but  his  owner,  when  all  was  said  and  done.  He 
pushed  back  the  blind  which  seemed  ready  to  descend. 
If  Worsdale  and  his  friend  were  satisfied,  let  the  world 
bleat — he  would  not  hear  it. 

At  this  centre  of  shipping,  distances  are  not  great 
between  the  offices  of  one  line  and  another.  If  you  are 
conversant  with  the  alleys  which  bind  them  one  to  another 
they  are  nearer  still.  But  O'Hagan  marched  with  the 
novices  and  came  presently  to  the  offices  of  the  Pampas 
Line.  He  stood  staring  up  at  them,  wondering  at  the 
name  as  he  came  under  the  portal. 

He  who  was  at  home  in  the  East  must  now  set  forth 
for  the  gates  of  the  West.  Pampas  !  The  word  con- 
jured memories  of  his  father's  study,  of  the  vicarage 
garden  seat  where  he  had  sat  drawing  inspiration  from 
Mayne  Reid,  Fenimore  Cooper  and  a  strange,  small 
booklet  giving  coloured  prints  of  the  "  Man  and  woman 
of  Brazil,  Peru,  La  Plata  and  the  Land  of  Fire."  Brief 
explanatory  notes  were  provided  to  these  woodcuts  of 
nude  and  semi-nude  barbarians — and  now,  it  seemed,  he 
was  to  regain  what  he  had  lost  by  entering  at  the  gates  of 
the  Pampas. 

A  commissionaire  met  him,  took  his  message  and  came 
back  to  pilot  him.  No  hitch.  Everything  ready. 
Again  he  could  have  sung,  .  .  . 

The  hum  of  the  traffic  in  Leadenhall  Street  died  as 
O'Hagan  marched  over  thickly  carpeted  floors  beyond 
the  ante-room ;  but  the  silence  of  the  senior  partner's 
sanctum,  as  he  entered  it,  seemed  to  suggest  a  minus 
reading.  The  commissionaire,  cap  in  hand,  spoke  his 
name,  closed  the  door  and  returned  to  the  portico. 
O'Hagan  sent  a  strained  look  about  the  room.  He  found 
the  sun  shedding  a  warm  glare  upon  the  carpet,  which 
was  of  reds  and  blues  and  greens,  he  saw  settees  ranged 
beside  the  walls,  a  writing  table  neatly  centering  them 
and  a  slim,  grey-haired  man  turning  from  the  fire  to  greet 
him. 

He  looked  up,  indeed,  from  a  semi-stooping  attitude 
and  encountered  O'Hagan.  He  maintained  that  attitude 
and  steady,  oblique  gaze  for  some  moments.  It  was 
embarrassing  merely  because  it  was  intense,  concentrated, 


A  PROBATIONER  171 

the  search  of  a  scrutineer.  O'Hagan  did  not  resent  it — 
but  it  cooled  his  ardour.  He  saw,  too,  that  there  was 
judgment  and  discretion  in  those  eyes — eyes  which  were 
grey,  deep,  strong,  sunk  like  caverns. 

"  So  you  are  Captain  O'Hagan,"  said  a  voice  which 
matched  in  every  intonation  with  O'Hagan's  reading. 
"  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  about  you.  Sit  down." 

And  Denis,  in  a  seventh  heaven  of  anticipation,  sat. 

"  I  gather  that  my  friend  Worsdale  is  much  interested 
in  the  question  of  your  suspension,"  said  he.  "  I  am  in 
sympathy — to  a  certain  extent.  Candidly,  I  cannot 
allow  a  matter  of  that  sort  to  handicap  my  service,  or 
the  dividends  we  pay."  He  spoke  in  crisp  sentences. 
"  You  see  my  point,  of  course  ? 

"  The  Black  List  ?  " 

"  Precisely." 

"  Do  you  think  it  likely  they — they  will  raise  any 
obstacle,  '  O'Hagan  questioned,  the  iteration  of  this 
suggestion  throwing  him  back,  back  nearly  to  the  dead 
level  of  accepting  service  still  with  William  Tipton. 

"  One  can  never  say.  I  hope  not.  In  your  case,  from 
what  Captain  Worsdale  tells  me,  I  am  inclined  to  think 
they  will  not.  For  that  reason  we  need  discuss  it  no 
farther.  I  wished  simply  to  make  sure  you  understand 
there  is  this  difficulty,  and  to  warn  you,  in  view  of  it, 
that  I  cannot  pledge  myself  .  .  .  you  see  that  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir.     I  am  not  here  to  ask  it." 

"  Quite.  Now — with  that  proviso  I  am  prepared  to 
give  you  the  command  of  our  new  steamer,  while  she  is 
in  the  builders'  hands.  I  want  you  to  watch  our  interests, 
to  supervise,  in  point  of  fact,  her  completion,  and  when 
she  is  ready  for  sea  we  can  discuss  what  follows.  Will 
you  undertake  this  duty  ?  " 

The  star  sank  steadily.  There  were  mists  about  the 
horizon  ready  to  swallow  it.  It  faded,  and  in  its  place 
O'Hagan  saw  months  of  dock  work,  tramping,  wrangling 
with  foremen  and  surveyors,  when  his  bones  ached  to 
find  opportunity  at  sea.  In  spite  of  his  disappointment 
he  managed  to  simulate  approval  with — 

"  Gladly,  sir." 

"  Good.  When  can  you  join  ?  The  ship  is  building 
in  Glasgow." 

"  To-morrow — I  can  travel  by  the  night  train." 

"  Do  so."    McClure  touched  a  button  and  a  bell  rang 


172  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

far  off,  at  the  other  end  of  the  world  it  seemed.  The 
head  of  the  Pampas  Line  rose  and  said  briskly,  "  Now 
I  think  we  understand  each  other  ?  It  will  be  necessary 
for  you  to  see  the  cashier.  If  you  will  follow  the  mes- 
senger he  will  direct  you." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  smiled  and  ended  the  con- 
ference. 

"  We  shall  meet  in  Glasgow.  She  is  building  at  a 
good  yard — Clydebank.  There  will  be  no  questions,  I 
think,  as  to  her  seaworthiness.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  Captain 
O'Hagan.  ..." 

They  shook  hands. 

The  title  mollified  while  it  stung.  It  did  not  wipe  out 
the  smooth  sentences  with  which  the  calm  business  man 
suggested  his  knowledge  of  the  crux  of  O'Hagan's  trial. 
But  it  failed  to  produce  the  retort  which  a  few  months 
ago  would  have  leaped.  O'Hagan  was  learning.  He  had 
a  feeling  as  he  followed  from  that  silent  room  that  he  was 
on  probation  and  would  never  again  attain  command  ; 
he  knew  that  his  face  burned  ;  yet  he  passed  on  and  came 
at  length  to  a  room  where  sat  the  custodian  of  treasure  ; 
the  man  who  added  up  receipts  and  doled  out  pay. 

From  him  he  drew  "  for  expenses,"  accepted  a  pen  and 
initialled  a  book  ;  from  him,  too,  in  slow,  hushed  sen- 
tences he  learned  that  his  pay  would  be  twenty-five 
pounds  a  month  while  in  dock,  that  the  ship  would  be 
ready  to  sail  in  August  and  her  name — Strathmuir.  The 
latter  he  confided  as  though  perhaps  he  was  exceeding 
his  duty,  and  in  the  silence  which  ensued  O'Hagan  got 
himself  disentangled  from  the  office  and  once  more  in 
Leadenhall  Street. 

He  came  out  confused,  rather  humilated,  not  quite 
sure  whether  he  had  taken  the  right  road,  and  reached 
Fenchurch  Street  Station  just  in  time  to  board  a  train 
moving  away  cheerily  for  the  docks. 

The  precision  of  it  all  had  ruffled  him,  the  rows  of 
desks  with  brass  rails  crowning  them,  the  stacks  of  books 
and  papers,  the  crisp  and  formal  attitude  of  those  with 
whom  he  had  been  in  contact.  Mental  reservation  was 
shadowed  through  all  the  phrases.  "  Recollect,"  so  ran 
the  admonition  in  O'Hagan's  mind,  "  this  fellow  has  lost 
a  ship.  Watch  him  very  carefully."  All  over  the  offices 
were  animated  question  marks,  exclamatory  marks  which 
bothered  him.  He  felt,  at  his  exit,  something  less  than 


A  PROBATIONER  173 

a  man  ;    a  bit  of  mechanism — that  was  it,  as  he  puffed 
down  the  street. 

And  that  was  his  induction  to  the  Pampas  Line. 

Once  a  captain  of  what  was  then  called  a  merchantman, 
read  himself  in  on  the  quarter-deck  of  his  ship,  precisely 
as  in  the  navy ;  now  he  penetrated  to  the  business 
quarter  of  a  city,  and  learned  from  a  cashier  the  extent 
of  his  salary.  Nothing  about  the  Grace  of  God,  Lords 
Spiritual  and  Lords  Temporal ;  no  hint  at  the  King's 
enemies  or  the  necessity  for  discipline.  .  .  .  Eyah! 
That,  too,  belonged  to  the  era  of  Mayne  Reid,  Marry  at 
and  a  vicarage  garden  deep  in  the  delectable  heart  of 
Sussex  where,  as  a  boy,  O'Hagan  had  dreamed  dreams. 

The  Blackwall  Railway,  chuffy  and  alert  with  the  new 
methods,  shook  him  out  of  this  and  presently  set  him 
down  by  the  collier  with  the  rainbow  funnel.  That  dis- 
persed all  megrims. 

He  saw  her  for  the  first  time  as  she  really  was.  He 
saw  that  she  was  sans-culotte  and  shameless.  When 
before  he  had  visited  her  it  was  at  the  end  of  a  weary 
round  of  failure.  He  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder 
and  anything  promising  work  was  a  long  way  up  it. 
Now  he  had  reached  the  middle  and  stood  there  with 
twenty-five  pounds  a  month  to  his  credit.  Therefore  he 
wondered  how  he  could  have  considered  the  rainbow 
funnel. 

Beside  the  slim,  smooth  hulls  and  black  and  red  funnels 
of  the  Pampas  Line  that  rainbow  thing  seemed  ribald. 
The  same  suggestion  of  looseness  was  exhibited  in  her 
gait  as  she  lolled  beside  the  wharf.  She  could  not  stand 
erect,  forsooth  !  She  had  the  appearance  of  one  who  has 
been  drinking,  and  her  scuppers  spouted  filthiness  upon 
the  placid  and  oily  surface  of  the  dock. 

It  seemed  now  that  the  boat  with  the  rainbow  funnel 
was  a  scallywag  of  the  seas,  and  William  Tipton,  when 
he  met  O'Hagan,  dotted  the  i's  and  crossed  the  t's  to 
emphasise  it.  He  stood  wet  and  smudged  with  toil  at 
the  head  of  the  ladder,  a  large  deck  swab  in  hand. 

"  Not  coming,  eh  ?  "  was  his  comment.  "  Waal — on 
consideration  I  didn't  expect  you  would  .  .  .  must  be 
pretty  low  before  you  touch  the  likes  of  this,"  he  threw 
out  an  explanatory  hand,  as  though  that  were  necessary, 
"  Think  I  would  be  here  if  I  had  your  years  and  .  .  .  and 
friends  ?  "  His  vehemence  seemed  to  point  to  some 


174  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

other  last  phrase,  but  with  the  pause  he  let  fall  a  sneer 
instead.  "  Guess  not,"  he  concluded,  the  swab  dangling. 

"  Can  you  get  another  man  ?  "  O'Hagan  questioned, 
refusing  the  issue. 

"  Another  ?     Fifty." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  put  you  in  a  hole  on  sailing  day," 
O'Hagan  pressed.  "  I  know  what  that  means." 

"  So  do  I — in  a  liner."  He  drew  himself  up.  "  Don't 
fash  yourself  .  .  .  we  crawl  out  when  we  are  ready. 
To-day,  to-night,  to-morrow — some  time  when  God 
Almighty  isn't  looking.  .  .  . 

"  You  get  along  home,"  he  added  in  the  drawling 
snarl  he  had  learned  out  West.  "  You  are  in  luck  .  .  . 
an'  that's  a  dam  sight  more  than  could  be  said  if  I  kept 
you  to  your  bargain.  ...  I  know,"  he  concluded,  grim 
and  uncompromising,  "  and  if  I  stay  here  an'  ain't 
drowned,  Sharum'll  know  tew." 

He  strode  forward  to  place  the  deck  swab  across  a  rent 
in  the  hose  through  which  a  column  of  water  squirted 
fountain-wise  into  an  open  hatchway. 


CHAPTER  VI 

GLASGOW 

IT  happened  to  be  raining  when  O'Hagan  entered  in 
the  early  morning  the  great  city  whose  ships  had  carried 
him  staunchly  in  all  parts  of  the  world.  A  thin  drizzle 
fell  from  the  mist  canopying  the  Clyde  ;  smoke  ascended 
in  vertical  columns ;  there  was  no  wind  ;  but  glimmering 
in  the  west  the  promise  of  a  golden  day.  Well,  well — the 
rain,  at  all  events,  he  had  expected. 

He  came  from  his  hotel  shaved,  tubbed,  and  ready  to 
absorb  the  place.  Glasgow  as  yet  was  but  a  name  to  him, 
he  knew  it  only  by  hearsay,  as  the  phrase  goes  ;  but  it 
was  a  name  with  which  he  had  been  ready  to  conjure. 
Other  places  exist  where  ships  are  built ;  a  sailor,  however, 
bows  before  the  Clyde. 

O'Hagan  learned  that  years  ago,  when,  as  a  boy,  he 
clung  to  the  mizzen  braces  as  they  squared  yards  in  a  gale. 
They  were  running  the  Easting  down  and  a  lean  Scotsman 
dangled  beside  him,  watching  the  sea  which  had  boarded 
them — 

"  Three  hun'ard  tons  there,  my  son,"  he  yapped,  "  an' 
never  a  whimper.  Hear  her  runch  !  That  s  Glesca's 
handiwark.  She  kens  what  like  it  is  doon  here  .  .  .  ither 
yards  dinnot." 

He  spoke  in  a  dull  shout,  his  head  slouched  against  the 
wind,  of  the  Clyde's  city  as  a  yard.  All  else  seemed  incon- 
sequent, and  the  memory  stood  in  O'Hagan's  mind  by  the 
sheer  force  of  the  picture.  ..."  Glesca  does  it — ither 
folk  try,"  he  asserted,  hammering  it  in. 

Again,  when  crossing  the  Bay,  not  long  ago,  the  Clyde- 
built  Saladin  came  in  with  no  more  damage  from  the  gale 
which  slowed  her  than  a  couple  of  sprung  ports.  But 
boats  "  fra'  ither  yards  "  reached,  if  they  reached  at  all, 
swept ;  with  fewer  men  on  their  decks,  without  houses, 
bulwarks,  bridges ;  and  some  were  presently  posted 
"  missing." 


176  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

All  the  world  builds  machines  which  float ;  but  Glasgow 
builds  ships.  Even  as  some  men  build  houses  of  Portland 
stone  and  reinforced  concrete,  so  there  are  others  who 
use  corrugated  iron  and  mud  and  wattles.  In  the  East 
you  will  hear  it,  in  the  West ;  punching  the  seas  off  Cape 
Horn  or  daundering  through  the  Canal  and  Red  Sea. 
"  There  goes  a  beauty,"  "  The  Clyde  sheer — look  at  her 
lines,"  "  Keep  them  off  the  rocks  and  don't  go  full  tilt 
through  the  ice  and  nothing  will  harm  them."  These 
are  the  phrases  which  stirred  in  O'Hagan's  mind  as  he 
peered  about  in  the  "  wee  bit  rain." 

Of  course,  he  was  aware  that  efficiency  at  sea  is  only 
bought  by  a  free  relaxation  of  the  purse  strings.  That 
is  the  law  always  when  the  best  is  desired,  and  even  so, 
it  is  sometimes  found  inadequate.  The  difference  between 
a  ship  built  by  a  great  firm  with  traditions  to  consider  and 
a  mushroom  company  is  on  all  fours  with  the  production  of 
an  Elizabethan  mansion  and  a  suburban  palace  of  the 
jerry-built  brand. 

A  man  who  is  not  cognisant  of  these  facts  were  better 
off  the  bridge  of  a  steamer  either  in  gale  or  calm,  and  cer- 
tainly should  find  no  place  during  her  construction. 

O'Hagan  turned  to  look  upon  the  Broomielaw,  and  again 
his  senses  shivered.  It  seemed  he  did  not  know  the  Broo- 
mielaw. It  was  fine.  It  was  lined  by  shops,  and  the  river 
babbled  at  its  windows.  Plate  glass  received  his  shadow 
where  he  had  expected  to  discover  smudges,  a  crude 
assortment  of  "  drinking  shops,"  and  tatterdemalions  of 
all  nations,  male  and  female,  in  possession  of  the  side 
walks. 

Seated  on  spar  ends,  listening,  in  the  soft  monotone  of 
the  sea,  to  stories  of  the  Broomielaw,  he  had  heard — 
Wisht !  he  had  heard  what  he  had  heard.  And  now  he 
was  here,  seeing  it,  drinking  in  the  fact  that  there  were 
shops,  shops  exhibiting  costly  instruments,  flags,  books, 
machinery  ;  that  it  was  a  highway  of  respectability — 
where  reputations  could  be  made,  not  broken.  .  .  .  He 
stared  again  at  the  name.  There  was  something  awry  with 
this  Broomielaw.  He  searched  his  memory  for  indica- 
tions. 

He  had  heard  of  it  first  from  a  half-drunken  sailor  on 
the  Maidan,  an  hoary  sinner  who  announced  to  peering 
Bengalees  that  he  owned  houses  on  the  Broomielaw — 
"  pubs,"  he  called  them — "  where  a  man  might  shwill  all 


GLASGOW  177 

day — hie — an'  all  night — hie — an'  no  dam'  low  caste 
nigger  police  would  bother  him."  They  were  taking  him 
to  jail  because  obviously  he  was  unclean.  "  Whiroo !  " 
he  challenged  the  guardians  of  Calcutta's  peace  to  meet 
him  in  the  Broomielaw,  when  he  would  be  pleased  to  show 
them  how  many  blue  beans  made  five.  It  appeared  that 
he  was  a  sort  of  king  in  the  Broomielaw,  and  O'Hagan 
drew  near  because,  at  first,  he  visualised  a  countryman 
in  distress  and  because  of  the  iteration  of  that  strange  word 
— the  Broomielaw.  And  here  he  was,  now,  in  the  midst 
of  it. 

Glasgow  lay  all  around  him,  and  yet,  but  for  the 
trickling  quality  of  the  rain  which  fell  upon  him  he  had 
found  no  sign  he  knew. 

He  had  heard  of  the  street  preachers  who  stood  on 
little  rostrums — barrels  the  historians  had  termed  them — 
to  harangue  busy  citizens  on  the  instability  of  their  tenure, 
and  to  warn  them  of  the  perambulations  of  a  very  potent 
and  alert  devil,  who  waited  with  crutches  to  assist  them 
.  .  .  but  he  did  not  see  these  pessimists.  Nor  was  there 
any  sulphur  in  the  air  which  could  not  be  directly  traced 
to  adjacent  chimneys. 

Then  there  came  the  memory  of  haggis  to  bother  him — 
it  was  early,  you  perceive,  and  he  could  not  yet  enter  an 
office.  All  the  streets  of  Glesca  abounded  in  some  way 
with  haggis.  He  had  a  mental  picture  that  a  Scotsman 
could  not  live  his  day  without  it,  and  that  when  his  rose 
was  blown  he  found  it  in  the  skies.  Yet  here  O'Hagan 
could  discover  no  haggis.  The  disappointment  troubled 
him.  He  felt  as  a  man  who  opens  a  book  which,  as  a  child, 
held  him  enthralled,  and  finds  it,  not  insipid,  not  rococo, 
not  contemptible — but  lacking  in  a  certain  quality  which 
once  had  stirred  him. 

Big  shops  no  longer  could  put  a  glamour  on  O'Hagan. 
City  halls,  sumptuous  offices,  electric  cars,  giant  hotels, 
and  all  the  marvels  of  modern  life  left  him  cold.  He  had 
seen  them  in  New  York,  in  Sydney,  Melbourne,  Cape 
Town  even,  as  he  had  seen  them  in  London.  They  belonged 
to  the  new  era  which  men  are  so  busy  extolling ;  to  the 
world  of  floating-palace-hotel  things,  with  a  swimming 
bath  thrown  in,  which  some  folk  still  term  ships ;  to  the 
rush  after  wealth,  the  hammer  and  tongs  struggle  to 
reach  affluence  quickly ;  to  the  crowded  and  sorrowful 
tenements  where  all  "  those  others  "  are  penned. 
B.F.  N 


178  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

But  of  haggis,  the  Broomielaw,  preachers,  and  several 
other  phantasies,  including  the  mist  which  was  rain,  only 
the  rain  existed.  And  that  was  failing. 

In  an  irresistible  quiver  of  complaint  O'Hagan  dived  to 
make  quite  sure  there  existed  somewhere  a  Glesca  similar 
to  that  of  which  he  had  been  told  in  watches  beneath  the 
quiet  tropic  moon,  in  plains  beyond  the  Hindu  Kush,  on 
the  peak  at  Hong  Kong — and  presently  he  found  it,  not 
far  distant,  but  very  gaunt  and  hoary,  somewhere  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Bobbie's  Loan. 

The  city  clocks  striking  ten  brought  him  post  haste  to 
the  Broomielaw,  which  was  his  point  d'appui,  and  there 
he  found  a  telegraph  office  which  would  send  a  message 
over  the  wires  to  Lucy. 

"  All  serene,  dearest,"  he  wrote  with  a  pen  wrhich  splut- 
tered, "  had  a  grand  journey  and  now  on  way  to  ship. 
It  is  some  distance.  I  shall  find  out  where  we  can  stay 
near.  DEN." 

Then  after  an  interview  with  the  ship-builders,  he  set  off 
by  tram  and  came  to  Clydebank. 

The  rain  had  ceased  and  the  promised  sun  had  appeared 
when  O'Hagan  stood  on  the  dock  wall  looking  down  for 
the  first  time  at  the  Strathmuir.  Pride  was  in  his  glance. 
She  was  his  to  command,  to  take  to  sea,  guide,  nurse  and 
direct,  and  she  lay  afloat  with  men  swarming  about  her 
like  bees  about  a  hive.  The  steaming  air  shook  with  the 
clash  of  hammers,  the  pom-pom  like  tap-tap-tap,  veiy 
fast,  of  the  riveters  ;  the  steely  click  of  ratchets.  There 
were  men  on  her  bridge,  on  her  stumpy  masts,  on  her 
rigging,  and  there  were  men  who  painted  and  polished 
and  scraped  and  cleaned,  and  men  who  smudged  and  made 
dirty  whatever  they  touched.  A  gaunt  regiment  of 
workers  all  clad  in  the  rust-coloured  garment  known  as 
overalls,  which  lent  a  warm  tinge  to  the  blues  and  greys 
of  the  iron  and  ascending  vapour.  The  sun  was  drying 
her  and  she  steamed  at  every  pore. 

To  give  some  of  these  people  foothold,  planks  were  slung 
over  side  ;  others  there  were  which  dangled  in  the  form  of  a 
tripod  high  about  the  masts,  others  again  which  appeared 
to  keep  the  funnel  and  all  that  mid-ship  section  which  is 
the  domain  of  a  captain  and  his  officers  from  tumbling 
like  a  pack  of  cards. 


GLASGOW  179 

The  Strathmuir  at  this  first  view  was  a  riot  of  unknown 
forces  to  O'Hagan — complex,  complex,  like  a  vision  of 
gigantic  tussling.  The  energy  displayed  seemed  inadequate 
to  the  result.  Phenomenal !  It  appeared  that  someone 
must  succumb  in  so  vast  an  encounter.  The  mere  shock 
of  concussion  was  sufficient  to  produce  disaster — and  yet 
he  knew  that  it  would  not  be ;  that  presently,  a  month 
hence,  six  months  hence,  the  banging  would  cease,  the 
decks  would  be  dry  and  the  Strathmuir  would  glide  out  to 
sea  unstirred  by  the  clamour  through  which  she  had  come. 
Unstirred  ;  but  vigorous  from  the  fight ;  strong  because 
of  it — a  wild  thing  to  be  governed,  carrying  in  her  frame 
the  characteristics  of  the  North  which  had  fashioned  her. 
Oh  !  she  was  strong,  virile,  dependable — the  very  anti- 
thesis of  that  miserable  Tramp  which  had  undone  him. 

As  he  stood  there  watching,  getting  accustomed  to  the 
savagery  and  gross  turmoil  of  construction,  the  question 
dawned — when  can  she  be  ready  for  sea  ? 

He  acknowledged  at  once  that  she  was  sturdy,  that  she 
exhibited  the  lines  he  loved,  that  she  would  do,  as  the 
saying  goes — but  he  could  not  pierce  her  processes.  It 
seemed  that  she  could  never  be  ready  for  sea — a  year 
perhaps,  six  months  ;  anything  far  oft,  tantalising  and 
visionary.  And  as  he  stood  puzzling  this  there  came  across 
the  stage  which  joined  her  to  the  dock  wall  a  man  in 
brown  overalls,  wearing  a  cap  carrying  a  dim  revelation  of 
badge  and  gold  lace.  He  came  near  wiping  his  hands  and 
saying  as  only  an  Aberdonian  can — 

"  Ye'll  be  Captain  O'Hagan  ?  " 

O'Hagan  scanned  and  said  that  was  true. 

"  They  'phoned  me  fra'  the  office  you  were  on  your  way. 
It's  a  graund  day,"  said  the  man  of  iron. 

He  paused,  his  eyes  twinkling  appreciation  of  the  message 
notifying  him  of  a  captain's  advent — "  A  dandy-like  chap," 
it  said,  in  the  voice  of  the  chief  clerk,  "  clean  shaven  and 
with  a  fighting  jaw — mind  your  eye,  Angus.  .  .  .  Mind, 
also,  he  ca'd  her  a  cargo-wallah.  An'  he  wears  gloves." 

He  made  an  end  of  polishing  and  held  forth  his  right 
hand,  introducing  himself — as  though  that  were  necessary. 

"  Ma  name,"  he  said,  "  is  Donald  Angus.  You  may 
have  haird  tell  o'  me,  an'  I'm  chief  o'  the  Strathmuir." 

O'Hagan  had  no  doubt  at  all  on  this  head.  Donald 
Angus  was  of  a  type  he  had  learned  to  know  since  his  first 
day  in  steam.  He  could  be  no  one  other  than  the  chief 


180  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

engineer.  He  had  the  essential  notches  graven  on  him. 
He  was  strong.  He  had  many  inches.  He  was  self- 
reliant,  he  wore  a  beard  cut  in  the  orthodox  fashion,  his 
eyes  were  blue  and  they  twinkled  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  Scot  and  should  be  dour. 

O'Hagan  accepted  his  hand  and  they  stood  together 
comparing  notes,  testing  the  qualities  which  each  imagined 
he  perceived  in  the  other.  And  for  their  medium,  as  is 
the  way  with  sailors,  they  had  recourse  to  ships,  steamers, 
the  ports  of  the  world.  O'Hagan  presently  mentioned 
the  Saladin,  in  referring  to  his  life  in  the  Eastern  Mail,  and 
Angus  broke  in  with — 

"  I  saw  her  in  Melbourne,  nineteen  hun'ard  and  one  it 
was.  .  .  ." 

"  I  was  third  of  her  then,"  O'Hagan  admitted. 

"  Were  ye  oot  there  when  the  Kingussie  came  in  at  the 
end  of  a  towline  after  nigh  on  a  thousand  mile  behind  yon 
Shaw-Savill  boat.  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  No— but  I  heard  of  it.  .  .  ." 

"  An'  I  was  second  of  her,"  said  Angus.  "  Took  sick 
in  Melbourne  an'  came  ashore  oot  of  her." 

"  I  suppose  you  saw  the  rats  were  leaving  her  ?  " 
O'Hagan  smiled. 

"  I  saw  enough  to  make  me  give  her  best  ...  if  you 
ask  me,"  the  Scotsman  asserted,  his  voice  low.  "  I  saw 
where  you  could  blow  peas  through  her — doon  betwixt 
wind  an'  water  .  .  .  she  that  had  stood  her  survey  only 
six  months  before  an'  was  chalked  Al  at  Lloyd's.  .  .  .  It's 
these  devilish  freights  that  do  for  them  when  they're 
aged.  The  iron's  just  perished  an'  you  clap  a  bellyfull 
in  her  of  your  worst  an'  send  her  where  there's  wider  sea 
room  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  world.  .  .  .  Doon 
South,  eh?  Ou,  aye  ...  I  know  ...  I  lairned  aa'  there 
was  to  lairn  whiles  we  are  paddlin'  oot  Kingussie.  ..." 

"  It  isn't  always  age,  though,"  O'Hagan  interrupted. 
"  It's  class,  strength,  build.  .  .  ." 

Angus  nodded,  his  eyes  sparkling. 

"  Soon  after  I  joined  the  Eastern  Mail  they  sent  me 
round  to  Belfast  to  take  over  a  brand  new  ship  which  they 
had  chartered  for  emigrants,"  said  O'Hagan.  "  She  was 
built  for  the  West  Indian  trade,  passengers  and  bananas, 
and  they  sent  us  round  to  Liverpool  to  fill  up  with  cement 
and  the  devil — you  know  the  sort  of  stuff  I  mean.  .  .  ." 
"  Aye — do  I,"  Angus  hummed. 


GLASGOW  181 

"  Then  they  plastered  her  upper  decks  with  wash- 
houses  and  the  rest,  filled  her  matchboard,  'twecn-dcck 
cabins  with  nine  hundred  emigrants,  and  sent  us  off 
via  Cape  Town — to  escape  canal  dues — on  her  road  to 
Australia." 

Angus  whistled.  "  Lose  anyone  ?  "  he  asked  with  the 
casual  intonation  of  a  man  interested  in  statistics. 

"  We  came  very  nearly  losing  the  ship,"  O'Hagan 
jerked  out.  "  She  opened  out  before  we  reached  the 
Western  Islands.  She  twisted  plates  and  panelling  before 
she  got  off  the  pitch  of  the  Cape.  Then  we  put  her  on  the 
Great  Circle  for  Melbourne,  and  off  Kerguelen  she  turned 
round  to  ask  for  smoother  water  ...  so  we  dry-nursed 
her  well  up  into  the  thirties  without  her  top  works,  with 
washhouses,  lavatories  and  companionways  swept  clear 
away,  with  panels  working  so  that  they  would  have 
ripped  your  fingers  clean  as  any  surgeon  and  no  charge 
made.  .  .  ." 

"  A  new  ship,  you  say  ?  "  Angus  questioned  as  O'Hagan 
drew  breath. 

"  First  voyage." 

"  Built  for  the  West  Indian  trade,  ye  say  ?  " 

"  Passengers  and  bananas." 

"  Wha  got  the  sack  ?  "  Angus  questioned.  "  A 
chartered  ship  !  Ou  aye — someone's  got  to  stand.  ..." 

"  The  skipper  and  chief  engineer  got  the  sack,"  O'Hagan 
tossed  back.  "  If  it  could  have  been  suggested  in  any 
fashion  that  the  navigating  officer,  purser  or  doctor  had 
had  a  hand  in  her  direction  we  should  have  got  the  sack 
as  well.  Made  no  mistake  about  that,  Mr.  Angus  .  .  . 
and  so  it  would  be  here,  for  you  and  me — if  things  feel 
agley." 

"  Hoots !  "  said  the  engineer,  his  eyes  twinkling. 
"  Let's  get  awa'  in  ta  lunch — this  is  Clydebank,  sir,  an'  it 
will  take  us  all  oor  time — you  an'  me — ta  start  sae  much 
as  a  rivet  .  .  .  put  her  on  the  Great  Circle  or  whaur  yc 
will." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    CHANCE 

A  WEEK  later  Lucy  joined  her  husband  in  the  apartments 
he  had  secured  for  her  in  Govan,  and  found  him  walking 
on  air. 

In  spite  of  the  heartening  result  of  Captain  Worsdale's 
telegram  he  had  returned  from  his  visit  to  town  a  little 
inclined  to  question  the  decision  he  had  made.  William 
Tipton  and  the  rainbow  funnel  still  presented  a  more  pos- 
sible mode  of  escape  from  the  dead  burden  of  failure  he 
faced.  McClure,  the  Head  of  the  Pampas  Line,  was 
responsible  for  this.  He  had  been  so  very  solemn  over  it, 
so  definite  as  to  the  result,  should  certain  contingencies 
arise,  that  O'Hagan  felt  he  would  be  unable  to  withstand 
them.  "  You  would  have  to  go,  you  see  that,  don't  you," 
was  the  chord  he  had  struck — and  it  vibrated  even  in 
Lucy's  presence,  her  delighted  comment  notwithstanding. 

It  was  the  chord  which  had  twanged  for  months — 
failure  its  burden.  The  solemn  music  of  a  dirge  ac- 
companying him  wherever  he  moved.  It  had  been 
apparent  to  Lucy  even  when  he  was  recounting,  over  his 
hurried  packing,  the  desirability  of  being  in  a  firm  like 
McClures  ;  the  opportunities  he  would  find,  "  if  only  it 
lasts."  He  went  no  farther  than  this  in  words.  It 
seemed  unnecessary.  Yet  it  hummed  through  all  his 
comment,  like  the  leit-motif  of  a  character  in  opera. 

But  now,  as  Lucy  met  him  at  the  Central  Station,  no 
hint  of  trouble  remained.  He  had  forgotten  his  insecurity 
of  tenure,  the  baneful  effect  of  a  Black  List  and  the  guessed- 
at  hostility  of  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co. ;  or,  if  he  remembered, 
he  dissembled  bravely.  Lucy  decided  he  had  forgotten 
and  her  heart  leaped  in  thankfulness.  To  see  his  fine  face 
tortured  by  anxiety  and  doubt  was  terrible  to  his  wife  ; 
to  notice  quick  flashes  of  temper  and  the  rather  caustic 
comment  which  sometimes  arrived  was  pain  unspeakable 
— and  it  would  grow.  To  know  that  she  and  Baba  must 
add  to  his  burden  and  in  no  sense  could  aid  him  was  the 


THE  CHANCE  183 

last  sorrow.  It  kept  her  awake  when  sleep  was  essential. 
It  would  make  her  old,  even  as  it  would  fashion  in  him 
some  other  soul,  some  strange  being  who  had  crept  into 
her  arms  in  the  guise  of  him  she  loved. 

And  now  she  perceived  he  walked  on  air.  His  head 
was  lifted,  his  step  elastic,  his  eyes  brimmed  with  hope. 
He  took  Baba  in  his  arms  and  imprinted  cautiously  a 
kiss  on  the  wondering  lips.  He  submitted  gravely  to 
being  punched  by  twin  restless  fists.  He  found  the  child 
had  grown  both  in  weight  and  intelligence — which  may 
have  been  true  and  set  Lucy  quivering.  He  threw  out  a 
sentence  in  Urdu  and  accepted  the  gurgle  he  gave  him  as 
wisdom.  He  was  jubilant  now,  jubilant  with  the  day's 
exit — because  to-night  he  could  talk  with  Lucy  and  tell 
her  of  success. 

He  had  prayed  as  a  man  does  for  success  and  it  had 
eluded  him ;  passed  over  mocking  to  that  soul  who 
contended  with  him,  leaving  him  wrung.  He  had  caught 
at  its  bridle  and  striven  to  mount,  but  he  had  failed. 
Ignominiously  sometimes,  out  of  sheer  apathy  at  others. 
Until  Worsdale  stepped  aside  to  help  him  he  was  like  a 
runner  clinging  to  the  stirrup.  Exhausted,  dust-covered, 
spattered,  too  weary  to  consider  the  fact  that  a  child 
existed  ...  so  he  hurried  from  pillar  to  post,  seeking  to 
win  bread. 

But  now  was  another  tune.  The  child  reclined  in  his 
arms  to  cut  the  air  with  sawing  fists  ;  to  mouth  and  dribble 
and  crow  at  him — that  small  and  amazingly  cute  personage 
which  had  got  himself  born  to  the  house  of  O'Hagan 
without  consulting  either  the  stars  or  some  Olympian 
versed  in  prophecy. 

A  man  who  is  on  the  Black  List,  whose  father  was 
simply  a  poor  parson,  had  no  right  with  a  child.  A  woman 
whose  father  had  risen  no  higher  in  the  army  than  Lucy's, 
who  had  got  himself  killed  in  a  frontier  row  before  he  had 
been  able  to  prepare  a  dot  for  his  daughter,  had  no  right 
to  consider  the  beautiful  sorrows  of  maternity.  And  a 
child  born  of  parents  so  wanting  in  practicality  should,  in 
these  days,  have  returned  to  the  dark  whence  he  came. 
The  world  of  men  was  singularly  bare  of  comfort  for  the 
Bottle-Filler  who  was  his  father.  It  would  look  without 
emotion  on  any  struggles  he  might  be  compelled  to  endure. 
It  would  shrug  shoulders  over  his  lapses,  speak — if  it 
considered  him  at  all — in  the  slick  phrases  of  condemnation 


184  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

which  are  its  method  ;  then  turn  aside  to  run  with  bowls 
of  soup  and  offers  of  sustenance  to  those  known  as  the 
horny-handed  sons  of  toil.  A  people  these,  who  alone 
can  produce  children  without  taking  thought  for  the 
morrow ;  a  people,  in  other  words,  definitely  banded 
together  to  extort  from  us  that  which  our  fathers  omitted 
to  place  to  their  fathers'  credit. 

The  days  passed  in  a  dream.  Glasgow  perhaps  had 
cast  its  spell  upon  these  two  ;  perhaps  the  Clyde  with  its 
wonderful  steamers  which  carried  them  now  through  the 
Kyles  of  Bute,  now  to  Arran,  and  once,  on  a  memorable 
day,  by  steamer  and  coach  through  Hell's  Glen,  which 
lies  at  the  foot  of  Ben  Donich,  and  thence  across  the  loch 
to  Inverary. 

For  a  man  so  lately  emerged  from  the  hands  of  those 
whose  province  it  is  to  sit  on  sofas  until  debts,  just  and 
unjust,  be  paid,  this  was  sheer  coquetting  with  Fate. 
But  on  the  morning  of  the  day  which  saw  them  looking 
up  the  loch  from  Inverary,  a  letter  had  arrived  from  an 
agent  in  Riverton  which  informed  O'Hagan  in  precise 
words  that  he  had  a  client  who  was  prepared  to  take  the 
Deodars  furnished  for  twelve  months.  The  rent  he  offered 
was  one  and  a  half  guineas  weekly  and  he  stipulated  for  an 
immediate  reply.  To  this  O'Hagan  wired,  "  I  accept," 
then,  like  two  children  who  have  cast  away  a  burden,  they 
started  alone  for  their  picnic. 

The  sun  smiled,  you  perceive,  and  the  lochs  would  be 
wonderful.  They,  were  triumphant  at  this  "unforeseen 
piece  of  luck,"  as  Denis  called  it.  The  landlady's  daughter, 
too,  made  her  contribution.  She  had  discovered  a  fine 
enthusiasm  for  the  "  wee  bairn,"  and  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  take  entire  charge  of  it.  So  they  started  without  fear 
and  returned  shorn  of  many  shillings  but  with  hearts 
attuned  to  that  song  which  came  daily  with  more  assur- 
ance from  O'Hagan's  strong  bass.  Success  !  Success  ! — 
at  last,  at  last  success  ! 

It  was  a  reckless  expenditure  of  those  slowly  earned 
bawbees,  of  course  ;  but  they  were  at  that  stage  of  ecstasy 
with  life  and  each  other  which  seemed  to  demand  outlay. 
At  this  moment,  had  Denis  found  himself  the  owner  of 
an  unexpected  ten  pound  note,  he  would  have  taken 
Lucy  by  the  arm  straight,  straight  to  Glasgow's  most 
wonderful  emporium  and  there  spent  it  on  a  coat  which 


THE   CHANCE  185 

should  keep  her  warm.  True  it  was  summer  as  yet,  but 
love  does  not  recognise  seasons,  and  for  months  he  had 
been  praying  for  that  note. 

Denis  talked  of  the  coat  to-day  for  the  first  time  at 
Inverary.  Hitherto  he  had  not  dared.  He  argued  that 
she  plainly  needed  it — had  needed  it  all  last  winter.  He 
urged  that  the  soft,  dark,  seal  coney  on  which  he  had  set 
his  heart  would  tone  so  well  with  her  beautiful  colouring. 
He  seemed,  so  he  said  in  her  ear,  to  find  his  future  more 
assured  now  that  he  had  been  taken  up  by  McClure. 
Twenty-five  pounds  a  month  meant  three  hundred  a  year. 
There  remained  also  their  joint  "  unearned  increment  " — 
and  now  over  and  above  all  of  it  was  this  eighty-odd 
pounds  for  their  house.  "  We  will  go  and  see  about  it 
to-morrow,"  he  decided,  staring  at  the  beautiful  contours 
far  up  the  loch,  his  arm  linked  in  Lucy's. 

It  was  recoil,  revulsion,  of  course.  From  a  state  of 
absolute  dependence  they  had  blossomed  to  a  moderate 
ease  which  plucked  at  O'Hagan's  purse  strings  even  as  it 
plucked  at  his  heart.  At  last !  At  last !  he  seemed  to  be 
saying  in  a  paean  of  triumph  ...  as  though  in  all  verity 
he  saw  himself  free  ;  as  though  no  Black  List  existed  to 
torture  him  and  render  him  effete. 

Had  not  Lucy  stood  very  firm  on  the  slopes  by  Inverary, 
Den  would  have  "  blewed  that  tenner  "  before  it  arrived, 
before  he  knew,  indeed,  whether  he  were  to  take  the 
Strathmuir  to  sea  or  not — and  if  things  afterwards  had 
fallen  awry  he  would  have  consoled  himself  with  the 
reflection  that,  at  all  events,  Lucy  had  her  coat. 

But  Lucy  decided  that  the  fashion  of  fur  coats  would  be 
altered  next  winter.  And  Den  accepted  that  in  all  faith. 

So  the  days  passed,  each  of  them  proving  more 
heartening  than  the  last ;  enthralling  days  which  saw  the 
Strathmuir  slowly  growing  fit,  and  the  fascination  of  a 
great  yard  taking  surer  hold.  On  Sunday  afternoons 
Lucy  accompanied  him  to  the  works  and  walked  sparkling 
amidst  the  joists  and  struts  and  beams.  They  sought 
Den's  room  and  brought  to  it  purchases  they  made,  and 
questioned,  throbbing,  whether  they  would  be  together 
this  voyage  or  whether  Den  would  sail  alone.  All  sorts 
of  theories  jostled  in  their  minds.  Worsdale  had  advised 
O'Hagan  to  say  nothing  about  it,  to  leave  it  in  his  hands 
and  he  would  see  what  he  could  do.  Incidentally  he 


186  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

managed  to  convey  the  fact  that  he  considered  them  mad 
to  think  of  taking  so  young  a  child  to  sea  .  .  .  but  his 
letter  showed  encouragement.  That  was  everything. 

Twice  McClure  paid  a  sudden  visit  to  the  ship  and  on 
the  .second  expressed  himself  satisfied  with  all  O'Hagan 
had  done.  He  made  no  allusion  either  to  the  Black  List 
or  to  Sharum's,  and  departed  after  throwing  out  a  phrase 
which  O'Hagan  could  construe  in  but  one  way. 

"  I  should  advise  you  to  see  to  the  ventilation  of  your 
room,"  he  said  in  his  crisp  fashion.  "It  appears  to  me 
they  have  overlooked  it." 

Now  "  your  room  "  might  mean  anything  ;  yet  Denis 
arrived  that  evening  in  Lucy's  presence  with  a  hug  which 
was  thoroughly  convincing  and  boyish. 

"  My  luck  will  hold  !  "  he  chanted.  "  Another  month, 
oh  Mem-sahib,  and  I  shall  have  my  papers  back.  Another 
month  !  Ye  gods  !  "  and  then,  as  though  the  mention 
of  time  brought  home  his  position,  he  suddenly  paused 
and  said  in  a  new  voice,  the  voice  Lucy  had  heard  during 
those  months  at  Riverton — "  I  wonder  whether  the 
beggars  will  endorse  it  as  they  do  a  cabby's  licence  ?  .  .  . 
'  Suspended  '  would  rather  botch  one — if  it  were  stuck 
across  its  face,  eh  ?  " 

"  They  wouldn't  dare,"  Lucy  flamed,  her  heart  racing 
swiftly  in  response. 

"  I  am  not  sure  about  that,"  he  answered  and  leaned 
back,  his  dinner  forgotten. 

Lucy  crossed  and  sat  in  his  lap,  compelling  him  to 
make  place  for  her. 

"  Forget  it,  Den  ...  it  does  not  matter.  Mr. 
McClure  knows  you  have  been  suspended — forget  .  .  . 
forget  .  .  .  forget."  She  kissed  his  forehead. 

He  could  not  resist  that  touch.  He  kissed  her  eyes. 
She  ran  her  fingers  through  his  hair.  He  was  serious  for 
perhaps  five  minutes,  then  came  the  laugh  she  loved  and 
she  left  him  to  his  dinner. 

He  looked  across  at  her  to  emphasise  McClure's  phrase 
— "  'Your  room,'  he  said,  'Your  room,  Captain  O'Hagan.' 
.  .  .  Do  you  think  he  would  have  said  that  if  he  did  not 
mean  I  was  to  go  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Nor  do  I."  Then  again  he  paused  and  added — 
"  Oh,  I  wonder — I  wonder.  .  .  .  Faith  !  I  don't — I 
believe,  Mem-sahib — I  believe,  and  so  do  you." 


THE   CHANCE  187 

Then,  very  naturally,  Lucy  said — "  Yes." 

O'Hagan  at  this  time  was  slowly  finding  his  feet ;  a 
fact  Lucy  knew  far  better  than  did  her  husband.  She 
knew  the  strange  and  fascinating  race  from  which  he  was 
sprung ;  its  brilliancy,  its  dash  and  wit,  its  twin  gifts  of 
eloquence  and  generosity.  She  knew,  too,  its  red-hot 
enthusiasms  and  its  cold  contempt  of  a  life  which  stings  ; 
the  brooding  and  still  dreaminess  which  sapped  its  man- 
hood and  set  it  behind  when  it  was  essential  it  should  be 
up  and  doing. 

She  knew  these  things  as  one  must  who  has  lived  in 
garrison  towns  among  soldiers  and  has  known  them  on 
The  Curragh  as  well  as  at  Colchester,  the  Plains  and 
Simla  and  Gib.  And  now  she  saw  that  Den  came  home 
with  nearly  the  same  verve  after  a  long  day  in  a  noisy 
yard  as  he  had  shown  at  breakfast.  He  had  stories  to 
tell  her  once  more.  Stories  of  his  experiences — mainly 
wrapped  about  a  personage  who,  presently,  Lucy  would 
learn  to  know  quite  well — "  My  chief  engineer,  Angus, 
you  remember,"  and  the  girl  found  them  interesting 
because  she  loved  the  teller.  She  found  herself  again 
entering  into  his  life,  taking  her  share  in  the  ups  and 
downs,  precisely  as  at  the  beginning. 

That  gave  her  hope.  She  sought  his  eyes  at  all 
junctures  now.  She  saw  them  brighten  by  degrees.  She 
found  them  glowing  with  pride  and  importance  ds  he 
came  in  for  a  hurried  lunch.  "  I  mustn't  be  a  minute 
to-day,  dearest.  They  are  lifting  a  big  weight,  and  I 
want  to  be  there,"  came  to  be  a  phrase  which  meant 
shortening  their  minutes  together.  Sometimes  it  was — 
"  They  are  taking  a  turn  out  of  her  this  afternoon,  and  I 
want  to  get  back."  It  sounded  as  though  the  ship  were 
a  piece  of  string  which  had  become  entangled  ;  but  Lucy 
presently  learned  that  he  meant  they  were  going  to  move 
the  engines.  She  became  wonderfully  alive  to  the 
meaning  of  his  technicalities.  She  took  a  pride  in  his 
Lordship  of  the  mute  Strathmuir  and  appreciated  the 
terse  phrases  concerning  her  precisely  as  she  had  acquired, 
in  days  long  past,  the  use  and  meaning  of  Ai  my  orders. 

You  see,  although  O'Hagan  had  never  shown  any 
churlishness  during  those  long  days  before  the  trial  nor 
in  the  more  terrible  period  since,  Lucy  had  discovered 
that  he  was  less  ready  to  laugh,  more  ready  to  sit  and 
brood.  She  hated  brooding.  It  frightened  her.  She 


188  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

dared  not  consider  what  would  happen  if  Den  became 
morose.  One  can  never  tell  where  brooding  will  lead. 
She  feared  it  with  her  whole,  brave  heart — as  a  woman 
will  who  has  not  yet  seen  cause  to  relinquish  her  ideals. 

Then  came  a  night  when  Angus  arrived  after  dinner 
carrying  a  newspaper — an  evening  edition  which  O'Hagan 
had  not  seen. 

"  I  thought  ye  would  like  to  see  it.  Mrs.  O'Hagan" — 
he  bo  wed  towards  Lucy — "  will  complain  that  I  give  ye  no 
peace — an'  wi'  a  sairtain  truth,  too.  But  this  consairns 
yon  tug-boat  we  were  talkin'  aboot  a  few  days  ago,  an' 
I  believe  ye'll  forgie  me  for  troublin'  ye.  .  .  ." 

He  opened  the  paper  and  folded  over  a  paragraph 
which  occupied  the  lower  half  of  a  column. 

"  You  mean  the  Casa  Blanco.  ?  "  O'Hagan  questioned, 
a  stern  note  already  in  evidence. 

"  Not  our  tug,  Mr.  Angus,"  Lucy  joined  in.  "  Oh  ! 
please  don't  tell  us  something  has  happened  to " 

"  Henry  Tompson,"  O'Hagan  put  in  with  a  quick  look 
at  his  wife. 

"  A  breakdown,"  Angus  explained  at  once.  "  Nae- 
thing  more  serious.  .  ,  .  Hoots  !  if  she  had  come  to 
hairm  I  would  scarcely  be  daunderin'  in  ta  see  ye  wi'  a 
pipe  in  ma  gills  .  .  .  nay — nay — but  she's  weenged  f'r  aa 
that.  Weenged — an'  it  wull  take  her  more  than  twenty- 
four  hoors  to  get  in  fettle — if  yon's  true." 

"Yon  "  was  the  account  over  which  O'Hagan  bent. 

"  Read  it,"  Lucy  suggested. 

And  Den,  having  already  scanned  it  for  horrors,  decided 
that  he  might. 

"  '  According  to  a  cable  from  Lloyd's  agents  at  Vigo  ' — 
that's  just  round  the  corner  in  Spain,  Loo,"  he  ex- 
plained— "  '  the  captain  of  the  Casa  Blanca,  which  put  in 
here  this  afternoon,  had  a  narrow  escape  from  drowning. 
It  will  be  remembered  that  the  Casa  Blanca  is  being  sent 
by  her  builders,  in  charge  of  Captain  Tompson,  to  Val- 
paraiso ;  and  a  certain  amount  of  interest  is  taken  in  the 
rather  unusual  trip,  because  of  the  small  size  of  the 
vessel  which  has  undertaken  one  of  the  longest  and  most 
stormy  voyages  possible  on  this  round  and  singularly 
turbulent  world  of  ours. 

"  '  Of  course  Captain  Tompson  is  not  tied  to  time.  He 
dodges  from  port  to  port  along  the  coast,  and  if  he  finds 


THE   CHANCE  180 

it  necessary  puts  in  for  shelter,  provisions,  water,  coal, 
and  so  forth.  But  after  leaving  Corunna  it  seems  the 
weather  became  suddenly  bad,  and  when  off  Cape  Finis- 
terre  the  little  craft  shipped  a  sea  which  swept  her  decks, 
carrying  away  bridge,  deck  house  and  funnel.  The 
captain  was  tossed  overboard  with  the  rest  of  the  wreck- 
age, but  by  great  good  luck  he  secured  hold  of  a  plank 
and  was  pulled  on  board  none  the  worse  for  his  immersion. 
"  '  We  understand  on  inquiry  of  the  builders  that 
orders  have  been  despatched  to  proceed  at  once  with 
repairs,  and  it  is  hoped  that  in  a  fortnight  or  so  the 
small  vessel  will  be  able  to  resume  her  plucky  attempt  to 
reach  South  America  before  the  equinoctials  set  in.  .  .  .' ' 
O'Hagan  looked  up  at  Lucy,  his  lips  in  line. 
"  I  should  never  forgive  myself  if  anything  happened 
to  them,"  he  said  softly. 

"  Pairsonally,"  said  Angus  without  hesitation,  "  I 
consider  it  just  temptin'  Provedence  to  go  a  trip  like  that — 
either  on  deck  or  in  her  engine-room." 

"  It's  Hobson's  choice  for  the  poor  devils  who  go,  as 
a  rule,"  O'Hagan  reminded. 

"  Aye  ?  "  Angus  mouthed,  his  eyes  lifted. 
"  You  see,  he  had  been  suspended,"  came  quietly  to 
enlighten  him. 

"  That  makes  a  differ.  .  .  .  Ou  aye,  I  can  under- 
stan'  a  man  takin'  a  hand  in  such  like  cases  ;  but  in  no 
ither,  bar" — he  puffed  it  out  with  definite  contempt — 
"  bar  he's  wowf." 

Lucy  looked  across  reiterating  the  strange  word  and  he 
explained  smiling — 

"  Daft — crazy,  you  would  ca'  it,  but  from  what  the 
cap'en  says,  I  gather  the  man  was  driven.  .  .  ." 
"  Exactly.     Driven  by  hunger." 

"  It's  a  job  for  a  single  man,"  Angus  proclaimed,  "  or 
a  man  wha's  tired  o'  life  ...  I  know  !  They  coaxed 
me  into  takin'  charge  o'  the  stairn  half  o'  that  linked 
foolishness  they  ca'd  Stromsue  //.,"  he  rambled  on,  intent 
on  forcing  a  new  interest.  "  You  mind  her  ?  "  he  inquired. 
"  A  tank  boat  which  was  tae  be  towed  to  and  from  the 
oil  ports  by  anither  tanker  ca'd  Stromsue  I. — because,  you 
mind,  it  will  pay  better  to  sail  twa  Stromsoes,  wi'  one  expen- 
diture o'  fuel,  than  one.  ,  .  .  Oh  !  I  know — I  know  !  " 
He  seized  the  paper,  tore  it  into  two  sections  and 
bunched  each  into  a  small  elongated  roll.  "  That's 


190  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

Stromsoe  /.,"  he  announced,  placing  it  on  the  table. 
"  She's  a  full-power,  ocean-going  oil  freighter,  wi'  engines 
aft  an'  a  sheer  o'  deck  in  front  like  a  turtle  back.  A  bit 
mast  up  for'ad,  anither  aft  to  carry  the  lights,  a  plank 
bridge  amidships  .  .  .  an'  here's  Stromsoe  II.,  connect 
wi'  a  string  to  her  sister,  daundcrin'  along  a  cable's  length 
astairn,  wi'  no  means  of  propulsion,  twa  stumpy  masts 
an'  a  place  aft  to  steer.  .  .  .  Her  decks  were  turtle- 
backed  too,  awfu'  to  consider,  an'  my  job — the  first  I  had 
at  sea,  ye'll  mind — was  to  keep  her  donkey  boiler  for 
emergency.  That  means  heavin'  in  the  towline  an'  sic 
like  foolery  .  .  .  an'  ye'll  understan'  I  had  fine  oppor- 
tunities for  keepin'  a  fu'  head  o'  steam.  .  .  . 

"  We  were  five  hundred  miles  west  o'  Fastnet,"  said 
Angus  as  he  sat  back  and  pointed  with  a  pipe  stem  at  the 
models,  "  more  or  less.  The  night  shut  down  early  an' 
we  twa  dafties  are  headin',  light  mind,  into  a  green-like 
bank  o'  cloud  standin'  like  a  shutter  across  the  sun. 
Stromsoe  I.  signalled  us  before  dark,  '  Mind  your  eye, 
Stromsoe  II.,  an'  keep  a  good  length  hawser  the  night.' 
We  said  '  Aye,  aye — go  gingerly  wi'  us  through  that 
scarp  !  '  and  in  truth  it  looked  it.  ... 

"  Then  came  night  and  a  blinkin'  bit  light  was  all  we 
had  ta  tell  us  jus'  whaur  Stromsoe  I.  led.  .  .  . 

"  At  ten  o'clock,"  said  Angus  as  he  gave  the  models  a 
twitch  which  left  them  out  of  line,  "  we  hit  that  bank 
straight  in  the  eye,  an'  it  turned  on  us  just  for  all  the  world 
as  though  we'd  angered  it.  Whiles  blue  flame  flickered 
on  the  edge  an'  there  came  the  rumble  of  thunder  ;  whiles 
again  there  was  no  sound  and  the  night  was  black  like  a 
drain.  .  .  .  The  wind  swept  oot  o'  naethingness,  hungry, 
wi'  a  snap  in  it  that  set  us  dodderin.'  It  came  at  us  savage 
from  a  sweep  across  the  ice  in  Baffin's  Bay  .  .  .  an'  the 
sea  got  up  to  help  it ;  a  sea — an'  me  new  to  the  game — 
that  took  my  breath  in  smacks.  .  .  .  Lumps,  Mrs. 
O'Hagan,  lumps  o'  movin'  water,  slopin'  up  to  the  stars, 
sleekin'  awa  wi'  a  suck  an'  a  slubber  o'  foam.  .  .  .  Hills 
.  .  .  ou  aye,  ye've  travelled  an'  have  seen  .  .  .  but  I 
wass  lookin'  now  for  the  first  time — an'  it  took  my  breath. 
It  took  my  breath.  ..." 

He  leaned  forward  tapping  the  table  before  him. 

"  Three  o'clock  came  along  an'  wi'  it  a  waste  o'  water 
that  made  us  jus'  stand  steel,"  said  he.  "  Somethin' 
twanged  on  the  bow.  We  could  not  see  what — but  we 


THE  CHANCE  191 

saw  her  nose  rise  like  a  wedge  across  a  reeft  in  the  clouds 
an'  then  she  daundered  away  on  her  own.  ...  I  was 
busy  wi'  the  boiler  an'  the  bearings  which  were  warm,  an' 
did  not  see  just  what  happened — but  the  roll  she  gave  as 
she  fell  off  in  the  trough  waked  me  to  some  sort  o'  notion 
o'  ma  sins.  .  .  . 

"  I  thought  she  was  gone.  I  thought  I  had  done  for 
good  an'  aa  wi'  winches,  boilers,  thrusts  an'  aa  the 
clamjamphrie  of  an  engine  room.  I  thought,  ye  under- 
stan',  I  might  begin  an'  say  those  prayers  I  had  promisct 
to  say  an'  had  forgotten  .  .  .  an'  I  began  tae  wunner 
what  like  place  it  was  we  would  fetch  doon  there  beyond 
they  bashin'  hill-set  rollers  wha'd  torn  us  by  the  croop 
an'  flung  us  dodderin'.  .  .  .  Then  up  comes  oor 
skeeper — ae  boy  he  wass  in  years — an'  sets  the  signal 
gaein'.  ...  '  Dot,  dot,  dash,'  he  jabbers  oot  in  Morse, 
'  we  are  adreeft — stan'  by  tae  pick  us  up,'  or  some  sich 
message  ;  but  deil  the  Stromsoe  I.,  did  we  see  the  nicht 
...  or  the  day  which  followed  ...  or  the  day  which 
followed  that — deil  the  sight  of  anything  at  aa  under 
steam  did  we  see  for  a  week.  .  .  .  We  just  lay  an' 
grumphed  at  ae  thing  oor  skeeper  ca'd  a  sea-anchor  until 
ae  liner  happened  on  us  an'  walked  us  back  tae  Queens- 
toon.  .  .  ." 

Angus  leaned  forward  to  collect  his  models.  He 
bunched  them  together  and  stuffed  his  side  pocket. 

"  I  did  that  when  I  was  a  bit  lad,"  said  he,  "  an'  I'd 
like  tae  do  it  again — if  I  knew  I  would  come  oot  the  same 
way.  .  .  ." 

O'Hagan  laughed  and  said  to  Lucy — 

"  He  means  he  came  in  for  something  in  the  salvage 
line  .  .  .  eh,  Angus  ?  " 

"  Aye,  did  I.  .  .  ."  he  smiled  broadly.  "  My  share  o' 
that  week's  wark  was  roond  aboot  two  hun'ard  pounds 
.  .  .  an'  I've  been  lookin'  for  chances  ever  since.  ..." 

"  None  in  the  Strathmuir,  anyway,"  O'Hagan  decided. 

"  Wi'  Cap'en  O'Hagan  in  command,  I'm  sure,"  the 
engineer  bowed,  then  with  a  chuckle  which  set  the  others 
laughing,  he  added — 

"  Eigh  !  but  we  were  a  bonny  pair— for  an  under- 
writer's reesk.  Likely  the  premium  was  worth  holdin' 
too  .  .  .  for  Stromsoe  I.  wass  a  ceelinder  wi'  engines  in 
her  stairn,  while  Stromsoe  II.  was  a  ceelinder  wi'  none  ! 
I  give  ye  my  word  I  meant  that  trip  tae  be  ma  last — 


192  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

whiles  I  was  on  it — ma  verra  last  .  .  .  an'  yet  they 
caught  me  in  Kingussie  doon  south  where  there's  no 
lane  o'  steamships  passin'  tae  look  ye  up  an'  speir  how 
ye  fare.  .  .  ." 

O'Hagan  withdrew  his  pipe  and  questioned — "  Any  loot 
attached  to  the  Kingussie  ?  " 

Angus  shrugged  over  this.  "  We  aimed  it  ...  every 
bawbee,"  he  said  with  decision,  "  an'  so  did  yon  Shaw- 
Savill  boat.  But  there  was  no  taste  to  what  we  catchit 
...  it  seems,"  he  added,  twinkling  as  he  rose  to  go, 
"  Kingussie  sailed  wi'  a  writ  of  attachment  on  her  which 
no  man,  bar  oor  skeeper,  had  seen.  ...  I  wonder,"  he 
questioned  dryly,  "  havin'  regard  to  the  fact  that  he 
missed  his  share  o'  the  plunder  just  by  that,  whether  he 
would  be  ready  tae  act  in  the  same  way  ta-morrow  ?  " 

He  tapped  his  nose  very  gently  over  this.  "  It  wants 
thinkin'  oot,  yon,"  he  said  enigmatically.  "  Ou  aye  !  It 
wants  conseederation." 

There  came  a  letter  about  a  week  later  from  Jimmy 
Barlow  himself,  asking  O'Hagan  for  the  sake  of  old  times 
to  "  see  the  missis  "  and  explain  the  circumstances  which 
had  compelled  him  to  put  into  Vigo.  He  explained  that 
he  had  seen  reports  in  the  Spanish  papers,  "  which  fairly 
took  the  cake  for  exaggeration."  He  was  afraid,  too,  that 
"  some  of  those  newspaper  chaps  would  be  laying  it  on 
thick,"  and  he  "  didn't  want  his  wife  scared  out  of  her  soul- 
case."  There  was  nothing  in  fact  to  scare  a  cat.  The 
Casa  Blanco,  was  a  clever  little  teetotum  and  a  fine  seaboat, 
but  he  got  caught  by  weather  which  he  could  only  call 
"  foxy.'F 

Then  came  his  fear  that  he  wouldn't  get  away  "for  a 
month  o'  Sundays,"  and  a  question  asking  whether  Cap- 
tain O'Hagan  had  had  any  luck. 

It  was  a  breezy  enough  epistle,  but  it  showed  Jimmy 
Barlow  in  a  Mark  Tapley  frame  of  mind  for  the  benefit 
of  his  old  commander  which  was  scarcely  convincing. 
O'Hagan  pulled  wry  faces  over  it  as  he  sat  discussing 
with  Lucy  its  optimism. 

"  If  they  give  me  command  of  the  Strathmuir,"  he  said, 
"  and  we  get  away  up  to  time  ;  we  ought  to  come  across 
each  other  before  we  reach  the  Plate." 

"  Is  that  possible  ?  "  Lucy  questioned,  her  hands  linked 
round  his  arm. 


THE  CHANCE  198 

"  Faith  !     I  have  known  stranger  meetings  at  sea." 

"  Delightful !  " 

"  I'll  write  and  tell  him  just  when  we  shall  sail  and  get 
his  itinerary  .  .  .  then,  if  he  works  it  properly  we  could 
nurse  him  a  bit.  We  go  over  nearly  the  same  ground," 
O'Hagan  decided,  noting  Lucy's  interest.  "  By  Jove  ! 
Yes — I'll  do  it  at  once." 

So  he  sat  down  and  concocted  a  letter  to  Jimmy  Barlow 
giving  him  full  particulars  of  the  Strathmuir's  coming 
voyage,  the  track  he  would  take,  and  the  signal  stations 
he  would  try  to  speak.  By  this  means,  without  in  any 
way  interfering  with  his  owner's  interests,  he  might  be  able 
to  convoy  the  Casa  Blanca  across  that  sixteen  hundred 
mile  stretch  of  ocean  which  lies  between  Las  Palmas  and 
Pernambuco. 

He  wrote  also  to  Mrs.  Jimmy,  explaining  why  he  could  not 
come  to  see  her  as  her  husband  desired,  and  advised  her  to 
take  as  little  heed  as  possible  of  what  the  papers  said ;  and 
then  sat  down  to  wait,  to  wonder  whether  he  had  built  too 
certainly  on  obtaining  command.  Whether,  indeed,  by  any 
possibility  he  would  be  able  to  act  as  he  had  proposed. 

And  so  it  continued  until  they  were  within  a  few  days 
of  the  Strathmuir's  trials. 

Then  one  morning  a  letter  reached  O'Hagan  bearing  the 
sign  manual  of  the  Board  of  Trade.  He  tore  the  envelope 
methodically  enough,  and  withdrew  his  certificate  without 
a  word.  But  as  he  unfolded  the  parchment  Lucy  saw  that 
he  flushed — a  sorrowful  signal  had  she  awaited  it,  to  the 
stress  he  felt.  She  scarcely  heeded  the  assurance  he  tossed 
her,  his  laugh  was  so  stifled 

"  Good.  It's  my  ticket — and  they  haven't  marked  it 
.  .  .  By  Jove  !  If  they  had  I  don't  think  I  should  have 
dared  use  it  ...  even  if  folks  would  have  looked  at  it.' 

"  I  was  sure  they  wouldn't,"  Lucy  breathed.  "  Yet  I 
am  thankful  to  know  it." 

"  So  am  I.  Lord  !  I  have  had  the  jumps  for  a  week 
thinking  of  it.  .  .  ." 

"  More  than  that,  Den." 

"  Mavourneen  !  "  He  looked  up  quizzically  and  caught 
her  glance.  "  I  believe,"  he  said  slowly,  "  you've  been 
afther  watching  me." 

"  Praying  for  you,  oh  dearest,"  said  Lucy,  and  her  arms 
went  up  about  his  neck  as  he  drew  her  close.  "  Show 

B.P.  o 


194  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

me,"  she  whispered.     "  Let  me  see  it.     I  don't  believe 
I've  ever  seen  it." 

So  he  showed  her  the  rustling  parchment  with  its 
acknowledgment  of  the  honours  he  had  taken  only  after 
years  of  hardship  and  preparation. 

"  I  fought  to  get  that,"  he  said  simply,  "  and  when  I  had 
it,  it  gave  me  about  ninety  pounds  a  year.  Fine,  eh  ? 
Cost  me  and  the  dear  old  gov  nor  seven  or  eight  hundred 
pounds,  by  Jove.  .  .  .  Took  top  rank  too,  see  ?  There 
it  stands — '  Extra  Master,'  '  Passed  in  Steam,'  '  Passed 
new  Sight  Test,'  '  Morse  ' — everything,  by  the  Lord  ! 
Oh  !  I'm  like  the  bumboat  wallah  in  Bombay — '  Ebrey- 
ting  got,  oh  Mem-sahib,  monkey  no  got.'  .  .  .  No  ship 
apparently  in  the  world  for  me,  old  girl — eh,  what  ?  " 
'  You  have  the  Strathmuir,  Den." 

"  On  probation,"  he  sang  in  her  ear.  "  Wait  a  bit ! 
I'll  dish  em.  If  I  don't  get  her  after  all  I  shall  know  why. 
I'll  work  a  scheme  I've  been  thinking  out.  We'll  make 
some  pennies  or  I'll " 

"  You  will  have  the  Strathmuir,  Den  .  .  .  you  will  sail 
in  her  and  it  is  I  who  will  have  to  stay  behind  and  wait. 
I  shall  hate  that,"  she  whispered,  clinging. 

He  held  her  close.     "  Then  I  shall  chuck  it,"  he  decided. 

"  No — no.  You  mustn't,  Den.  It  is  your  chance  and 
you  must  take  it.  We  will  get  along  as  well  as  we  can 
without  you.  .  .  .  Promise." 

He  recognised  the  futility  of  argument  with  a  shrug — 
"  I  believe  you  are  right,  he  answered.  "  I'll  have  to 
stick  it,  if  they  put  me  in.  Eigh  !  but  I  wish  they  would 
decide.  I'm  getting  desperate,  Loo.  It's  the  rustle  of 
this  '  ticket '  thing  that  does  it.  It  cost  me  so  much  .  .  . 
and  the  poor  old  dad  too,  who  couldn't  afford  it.  Faith  ! 
I  was  never  off  his  hands  until  he  pegged  out — never,  as 
I'm  a  living  soul.  If  I'd  been  trained  for  a  barrister  I 
might  have  expected  that  sort  of  thing.  That's  the  curse 
of  sea-going.  There's  no  money  in  it — nowhere  to  climb, 
even  if  you  are  lucky  ;  while  if  you  are  unlucky  you  come 
a  cropper  anyhow.  ..." 

Lucy  checked  him  with  kisses.  "  I  prophesy  you  are 
going  in  the  Strathmuir,  oh  dearest,"  she  told  him. 

"  You  are  my  cheery  darling,"  he  answered,  surrender- 
ing to  her  mood. 

And  as  it  happened,  because  mainly  of  the  friendship 


THE   CHANCE  195 

shown  by  Captain  Worsdale,  there  came  one  morning  a 
note  from  the  head  of  the  Pampas  Line,  appointing 
O'Hagan  to  the  ship  and  requesting  him  to  make  all 
preparations  for  the  trials  which  were  to  take  place  on  the 
following  Monday. 

Then,  on  Sunday,  the  day  before  O'Hagan  expected 
him,  McClure  came  down  to  Clydebank  while  Lucy  and  her 
husband  were  triumphantly  putting  final  touches  to  their 
cabin. 

Mrs.  O'Hagan  was  the  first  to  scent  the  presence  of  a 
stranger.  It  wasn't  Angus,  she  decided,  listening ;  nor 
any  of  the  men  she  had  seen,  she  continued,  peeping  through 
a  port  which  gave  upon  the  deck.  "  He  isn  t  a  sailor  at 
all,"  she  concluded,  "  but  he  seems  to  be  coming  here. 
Look  out,  oh  dearest !  " 

O'Hagan  looked  and  sprang  back  with  lifted  finger. 
"  It's  McClure,"  he  whispered.  "  Good  gracious — what 
shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  See  him,  dearest,"  cooed  Mrs.  O'Hagan.  "  Make 
love  to  him  and  send  him  away  quite  happy." 

O'Hagan  had  nothing  to  say.  He  saw  the  great  man 
coming  briskly  aft,  saw  him  enter  the  alleyway,  and  then 
straightway  darted  to  intercept  him. 

Of  course  he  was  too  late. 

"  I  came  down  last  night,"  said  McClure,  as  they  met, 
"  because  I  did  not  much  relish  the  Sunday  travelling. 
As  it  is  fine  I  thought  I  should  be  able  to  go  over  the  ship — 
er — by  the  way  " — he  was  in  the  saloon  now — "  did  you 
draw  their  attention  to  the  ventilation  of  your  room  ?  " 
He  approached  the  door,  O'Hagan  beside  him.  "May  I 
see  it  ?  "  Then  as  he  came  near  he  caught  sight  of  Lucy 
standing  there  looking  out  of  an  open  port. 

He  halted  at  once  and  uncovered.  "  I  beg  your  pardon," 
he  said,  as  she  turned  round.  "  I  did  not  gather  ..." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  was  my  fault,  sir,"  O'Hagan  put  in, 
flushed  and  amused.  "I  should  have  told  you.  .  .  .  Lucy, 
let  me  present  Mr.  McClure." 

The  owner  bowed  and  Lucy  made  him  instantly  welcome. 

In  a  general  way,  it  should  be  said,  McClure  had  no 
knowledge  of  the  sex  which  compels  captains  and  officers 
to  beg  for  leave  and  is  considered  in  the  light  of  an  encum- 
brance by  those  who  rule  the  various  services.  No  doubt 
there  were  women,  wives,  sweethearts,  and  so  forth,  in  the 
background,  but,  as  a  rule,  McClure,  in  common  with  other 

o  2 


196  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

great  shipowners,  was  not  likely  to  come  in  contact  with 
them.  To  be  friendly  with  one's  skippers,  as  once  had 
been  essential,  was  sufficiently  terrible.  Autre  temps, 
autre  mceurs.  To-day  one  simply  did  not  do  it. 

But  McClure,  if  he  was  not  prepared  to  encourage  the 
old  relationship,  was  what  is  termed  a  gentleman  and  quite 
competent  to  recognise  what  also  is  termed  a  lady,  when 
he  met  her.  This  girl  won  her  way  in  the  first  exchange. 
She  was  bright.  She  was  equipped  with  the  essential 
manner,  and  in  a  few  minutes  McClure  was  chatting  with 
a  geniality  O'Hagan  had  never  yet  seen  him  display.  He 
seemed  indeed  to  enter  quite  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing. 

"  I  was  afraid,"  he  said  presently,  "  that  you  would 
consider  me  a  nuisance,  coming  to  worry  you  on  Sunday  of 
all  days  ;  but  you  very  kindly  show  that  I  am  welcome. 
May  we  sit  ?  I  have  had  a  dusty  walk.  .  .  .  Thanks  so 
much.  This  is  a  capital  room,'  his  glance  took  it  in. 
"  You  must  permit  me  to  recognise  your  finger  in  the 
details  I  see."  His  eyes  were  everywhere,  yet  he  contrived 
to  discover  that  Mrs.  O'Hagan  was  exceedingly  pretty, 
and  a  pucker  of  consideration  touched  his  forehead  as 
they  chatted. 

He  discovered  in  a  very  short  time  that  Lucy  had  been 
in  India  and  had  travelled  rather  widely  for  so  young  a 
woman.  This  interested  him,  and  he  drew  her  out  with 
those  leading  questions  a  man  of  culture  can  so  readily 
and  inoffensively  propound.  Lucy's  life  history  was  no 
longer  a  sealed  book.  "  The  army,"  McClure  decided. 
"  Quite.  You  cannot  mistake  the  note,"  and  as  they 
chatted  he  formed  his  opinion — one  entirely  sympathetic 
but  unspoken. 

Then  for  a  while  the  two  men  marched  solemnly  about 
the  decks  and  bridge,  peeped  into  the  living  rooms  and 
examined  new  points  in  the  game  of  shipbuilding.  A 
workmanlike  ship  lay  for  examination.  No  giltwork, 
no  scrolls,  no  unnecessary  elaboration,  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  no  gingerbread — at  all  events  evident.  Labour- 
saving  appliances,  oh  yes — for  that  is  essential  where 
labour  stands  on  stilts  and  frowns  and  quibbles  with 
capital.  But  again  nothing  which  had  not  been  forced  by 
the  insensate  competition  of  rivals  at  home  and  abroad, 
and  the  unending  interferences  of  an  authority  which  is 
as  greatly  concerned  with  "  belts  and  sashes  "  as  a  kindred 
department  which  prepares  the  nation  against  war. 


THE   CHANCE  197 

They  came  back  after  a  long  inspection  and  found  Lucy 
with  her  travelling  tea  basket,  her  dainty  china,  and  tea 
already  in  the  pot.  McClure  smiled  his  approval.  He  said 
that  he  had  no  idea  of  the  hour,  but  that  he  would  have 
discovered  it  long  before  he  could  reach  his  hotel.  Very 
gratefully  he  would  take  a  cup.  Then  standing  thought- 
fully before  the  pretty  picture  Lucy  made,  he  said  : 

"  Are  you  one  of  those  fortunate  people,  Mrs.  O'Hagan, 
who  are  called  'good  sailors'  ?  " 

She  looked  up  to  say  she  had  never  been  ill  in  her  life. 
"  And  do  you  happen  to  be  fond  of  the  sea  ?  " 
"  I  love  it,"  said  Lucy,  her  heart  throbbing,  her  face 
aflame  at  the  direction  he  took. 

McClure  lifted  his  cup  and  noted  its  transparency — 
"  Have    you    ever    been    to    the   Argentine — B.A.*  I 
wonder  ?  "  he  asked  her. 
"  No." 

"  And  you  would  care  to  ?  " 

Again  came  the  quick  phrase  which  is  on  the  lips  of  all 
young  people — "  I  should  love  it,"  then  suddenly  she 

paused  and  for  some  reason  interjected,  "  but "  and 

was  silent. 

McClure  drank  his  tea  and  replaced  the  cup. 
He  crossed  the  room,  found  his  hat  and  stick,  and  quietly 
returned.  Lucy  wondered  whether  he  had  heard  her 
reply.  Her  heart  thumped  furiously.  McClure  stood 
before  her  holding  out  his  hand.  She  took  it  and  heard 
him  say — 

"  Think  it  out,  Mrs.  O'Hagan.  She  is  only  a  tramp, 
you  know  ;  but  if  your  husband  considers  she  is  fit — and 
you  would  like  the  trip — go  by  all  means.  ..." 

He  shook  hands.  He  was  rigorously  polite.  His  tones 
seemed  a  little  more  formal ;  as  they  had  been  before  he 
took  tea.  Perhaps  that  was  because  he  had  read  what  was 
in  Lucy's  mind,  and  glowing  in  her  eyes. 

She  said  with  a  delight  he  certainly  recognised — 
"  Oh  !     but   I   don  t  need   to   think.  ...  I   may  go, 
mayn't  I  ?   I  have  been  praying — praying  to  go  ...  and 
— Den,  please  tell  Mr.  McClure  what  it  means  to  us  ... 

for  I  can't,  I  can't " 

On  the  whole  one  is  inclined  to  believe  that  McClure 
required  no  telling. 

*  JJuenos  Ayres. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HEADING    SOUTH 

THE  Slrathmuir  dug  with  her  nose  at  a  Channel  roller 
which  came  meandering  to  greet  her  as  she  rounded  the 
South  Stack ;  but  to  the  next  and  the  next,  all  through 
a  bewildering  sequence  of  them,  she  lifted  as  became  a 
ship  thus  early  introduced  to  a  sea. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  the  first  she  had  seen, 
for  her  trials  and  the  trip  round  to  Liverpool  had  taken 
place  in  brilliant  summer  weather.  Angus,  the  chief 
engineer,  standing  hot  and  smudged  to  cool  in  the  alleyway, 
said  she  did  not  seem  to  know  what  to  do  with  it,  adding, 
as  an  afterthought,  "  but  she'll  lairn."  Mrs.  O'Hagan, 
watching  from  behind  a  screen  spread  for  her  comfort  on 
the  deck  above  him,  decided  it  was  the  Strathmuir's 
christening,  and  snapshotted  the  curving  spray  for  a 
record. 

It  was  summer  still  in  British  seas,  the  depth  of  winter 
down  there  where  the  Casa  Blanco,  proposed  presently  to 
journey.  Long  days  in  the  north,  short,  bitter  days  off 
the  Horn  and  in  Magellan's  Straits,  which  Jimmy  Barlow 
must  pass.  At  the  moment,  it  is  true,  he  still  moved  from 
port  to  port,  dodging  Pompey  on  his  way  to  a  new  world, 
and  gaining  experience  of  the  Casa  Blanca's  moods. 

In  this  matter  the  two  officers  of  the  Sphinx,  who  had 
to  clear  their  characters,  were  in  like  case  ;  but  in  no 
other  under  the  sun.  O'Hagan  went  out  to  win  fame  in 
command  of  one  of  Glasgow's  best.  Jimmy  Barlow 
pottered  along  in  singularly  good  hands,  but  on  a  freak 
voyage,  his  eye  alert  for  portents,  his  mind  intent  on 
winning  through.  Coasting,  especially  in  a  tiny  vessel 
which  must  be  protected  from  too  near  an  acquaintance 
with  Atlantic  or  any  other  rollers,  is  a  harassing  business 
even  where  many  men  are  engaged  ;  but  the  Casa  Blanca 
was  unfitted  to  carry  a  large  crew.  A  trip  such  as  that 
upon  which  Jimmy  Barlow  was  engaged  is  very  like  the 
freak  trips  sometimes  attempted  by  acrobatic  souls  in 


HEADING  SOUTH  199 

open  boats  on  the  Atlantic.     You  may  arrive  at  your 
journey's  end  and  you  may  arrive  elsewhere. 

But  in  this  case  it  was  not  notoriety  Jimmy  Barlow 
struggled  to  secure — bread  was  the  desideratum  ;  the 
essential  supply  of  bread  for  himself,  a  wife  and  three 
children,  who  had  already  stood  very  near  the  Reaper  as 
he  moved  across  the  land. 

At  the  moment  the  Casa  Blanca  pushed  her  way  towards 
Agadir,  the  townlet  of  Morocco  which  presently  was  to 
thrill  the  Chancelleries  of  Europe  and  cause  nations  to 
loose  their  swords.  But  at  the  moment  Agadir  lay  still 
enough  beneath  the  African  sun,  and  the  stress  of  seas  alone 
hindered  Jimmy  Barlow.  He  had  touched  at  Mazagan 
and  sheltered  three  blustery  days  at  Mogador,  whence  a 
message,  the  last  O'Hagan  was  to  read,  came  to  the  under- 
writer's room  on  'Change.  "  All  well,"  it  said. 
Nothing  could  be  briefer. 

And  here,  through  the  glowing  sunset  of  the  north, 
came  the  Strathmuir,  deeply  laden  with  British  cement, 
iron  and  machinery  ;  but  walking  with  a  surer  stride, 
the  stride  of  a  ship  which,  in  spite  of  her  burden  under  the 
new  rule,  accepts  the  sea  for  what  it  is, — a  vessel  which  a 
man  can  control — one  fit  to  contend  with  the  force  which 
presently  would  stand  over  her. 

Out  of  the  black  north  she  came  through  the  flare  of  a 
summer's  gale,  the  sky  above  her  blended  for  wickedness, 
the  sea  leaping  already  to  greet  her.  It  was  the  small, 
bustling,  noisy  sea  of  all  narrow  and  shoal  waters — the 
sea  which  gets  up  quickly,  dies  quickly,  and  is  the  anti- 
thesis of  the  vast  ranges  which  travel  the  world  round 
down  there  where  the  Casa  Blanca  presently  must  essay 
a  passage. 

Darkness  descended  with  the  slow  precision  of  the  fifties 
as  the  Strathmuir  moved  on  in  a  growing  whiteness. 
The  lights  came  out  to  give  her  their  blessing — Carnarvon 
Bay,  Bardsey,  Cardigan,  and  at  length  Tuskar.  The 
Strathmuir 's  compasses  had  stood  the  test,  even  as 
O'Hagan's  navigation  had  proved  him  competent.  No 
slipshod  searching  for  lights,  nothing  to  flurry  men  on  the 
bridge — men  new  not  only  to  O'Hagan  and  the  ship  but 
to  each  other. 

Red  then  white,  red  then  white,  Tuskar,  the  last  of  our 
Channel  lights  on  this  side,  flashed  upon  a  Strathmuir 
which  presently  would  open  the  Irish  land  and  meet  all 


200  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

there  was  in  the  way  of  weather.  Ireland  lay  behind  it. 
Wexford  not  far  off,  County  Kildare,  the  home  of  O'Hagan's 
people  in  the  long  ago,  just  over  the  way.  A  whiff  of 
the  land  came  out  to  greet  him  as  he  passed,  and  for  a 
moment  he  stood  bareheaded,  staring  into  the  haze. 

The  wind  swept  moaning  over  his  country's  hills.  He 
took  deep  breaths  and  returned  to  his  corner. 

Slosh,  bang — boom.  Boom  again  in  diapason.  A  flicker 
of  flying  spray ;  decks  whiter,  the  glare  of  sidelights  now 
green,  now  red,  reflected  in  rainbow  tints  on  either  hand. 
Slosh — bang — boom.  An  immense  incursion  of  water 
trailing  down  steep  decks,  the  hiss  of  spray  on  the  fiddley 
gratings.  The  banging  of  an  iron  door  down  there  where 
Angus  had  stood  to  judge  her  style. 

The  ship  had  scooped  a  deckload.     Nothing  more. 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  when  Lucy  woke  to  the  noise 
of  gurgling  water  and  peeped  out.  The  cabin  was  full 
of  shadows.  A  small  light  burning  on  the  farther  bulk- 
head threw  a  circle  of  white  upon  the  upper  deck,  which 
was  the  ceiling  of  her  room.  The  wind  moaned  up  there 
where  the  gurgling  culminated  in  sudden  rushes  of  water, 
as  in  a  tilted  bath.  Footsteps  crossed  overhead  at  a  run, 
sodden,  thumping,  like  indiarubber.  She  found  it  neces- 
sary to  discover  why,  and  rose  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
afraid.  There  was  a  solemn  flapping  too,  a  flapping  which 
seemed  to  shake  the  ship,  which  engaged  her  attention  by 
the  mere  burden  of  iteration. 

She  slipped  to  the  floor  intent  on  discovering  Baba's 
attitude  amidst  this  turmoil.  She  moved  in  semi-dark- 
ness, afraid  to  strike  a  match,  and  reached  the  gimbal- 
slung  cot  which  Den  had  discovered  and  purchased  for 
her  peace.  The  child  slept  without  whimpering,  one  small, 
tightly  clenched  fist  thrust  out  upon  the  rail.  Lucy 
captured  it  and,  cooing,  placed  it  beneath  the  blankets. 

She  was  but  lightly  clad,  and  the  wind  sang  a  lullaby 
high  over  head.  It  was  the  refrain  she  remembered 
once  when  crossing  to  India  in  the  SW.  monsoon,  the 
refrain  she  had  heard  that  night  when  Den's  ship  found 
the  rocks  of  Cornwall. 

She  decided  to  turn  up  the  lamp  and  crossed  to  do  so. 
Then  suddenly  the  ship  stooped  with  a  soughing  note 
which  sent  fear  for  her  child  surging  through  her.  She 
crouched  by  the.  crib  side  listening.  The  deck  sloped  away 


HEADING  SOUTH  201 

from  her  feet.  It  rose  to  meet  her.  It  trembled  under  the 
weight  of  repeated  blows,  solemn,  booming  drum  notes, 
which  reminded  her  of  the  bazaars,  but  were  intensified, 
monstrous  to  consider.  She  listened  in  a  sort  of  panic, 
but  reached  the  lamp  and  turned  it  up. 

That  revealed  to  her  a  floor  upon  which  everything 
moved,  sometimes  to  port,  sometimes  to  starboard,  Den's 
hat  box,  a  round,  leather  case  this,  rumbling  with  method  ; 
an  armchair,  which  should  have  been  fastened,  waltzing 
skittishly  ;  boots,  a  cake  or  two  of  soap  flung  from  the 
washstand,  books  and  trifles  which  are  essential  for  a 
woman's  comfort,  all  in  arms,  marching,  doubling,  charging 
to  add  to  the  turmoil  which  was  outside. 

Lucy  seized  these  things  and  tucked  them  away. 
She  was  concerned  with  the  hubbub  which  did  not  cease, 
with  the  charging  water,  the  thudding  drum  notes 
which  should  have  waked  Baba,  but  did  not.  She  put  on 
more  clothes,  dressing  in  curious  attitudes,  sometimes 
clinging  to  the  settee,  sometimes  sitting  upon  the  deck, 
her  feet  outstretched  to  keep  her  from  sliding,  tobogganing 
down  the  slopes.  She  watched  that  swinging  cot  as  she 
laboured  with  her  dressing,  and  presently,  with  a  cloak 
about  her,  entered  the  saloon.  A  dim  light  made  it 
ghostly.  Trays  and  other  strange  fixtures  swayed 
solemnly  in  the  gloom.  A  coat  hanging  there  pictured 
instantly  a  headless  and  satanic  personage,  grotesquely 
making  antics  with  limbs  which  showed  no  extremities. 
She  fled  down  the  alleyway  and  came  to  the  outer  door. 
It  was  shut  and  the  wind  drummed  heavily  upon  it. 
Then  a  great  sea  charged  it  and  the  water  climbed, 
gurgling  over  the  high  sill  and  the  alleyway  brimmed. 

She  ran  back  quickly  and  found  a  companion  way. 
She  mounted  the  stairs  clinging  to  the  handrail,  listening  to 
the  boom  of  the  wind  past  the  open  door.  She  looked  out. 
Darkness  everywhere,  darkness  and  flying  spray.  She 
strove  to  shield  her  eyes  and  stare  over  the  drawn  cowl ; 
but  she  could  not  face  the  stinging  salt.  She  turned  her 
head  and  looked  out  with  her  back  to  the  wind,  and  saw 
without  knowing  it,  the  meaning  of  all  this  additional 
turmoil. 

A  giant  steamer  fled  by  going  up  channel.  Her  decks 
were  lighted,  tier  above  tier.  Four  great  funnels  stood 
high  above  them  belching  smoke  and  a  ruddy  glow.  She 
seemed  to  breathe  fire  and  smoke  like  a  monster  in  pantg- 


202  THB   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

mime,  and  the  roar  of  her  engines  and  her  passage 
sounded  like  the  blast  of  a  furnace.  Enormous,  she 
towered  above  that  puny  Strathmuir,  scarcely  deigning  to 
note  her  existence,  pushing  her  over  towards  the  land  as 
though  the  sea  and  the  lights  of  England  existed  solely 
for  her  benefit. 

Never  in  all  her  journeying  had  Lucy  felt  so  small,  or, 
in  all  truth,  so  frightened.  She  recognised  that  flying 
mail  ship  for  one  of  the  vessels  on  which  she  had  voyaged 
without  much  thought ;  as  of  the  Saladin,  for  instance, 
which  moved  so  serenely  with  flowers  and  ferns  on  her 
tables  and  rarely  felt  the  sea  in  her  face.  She  recognised 
in  those  few  minutes  of  panic  that  she  would  be  alone  in 
this  ship  ;  that  Den  would  generally  be  on  the  bridge,  and 
that  only  two  officers,  a  steward  and  a  maid  slept  at  that 
end  of  the  ship. 

Then  suddenly  she  remembered  that  Den  had  fitted  a 
telephone  from  the  bridge  to  her  room  and  that  she  could 
perhaps  make  him  hear.  She  could  not  face  that  swirling 
sea  alone,  and  she  dared  not  leave  the  child,  even  had  she 
dared  the  sea. 

She  came  back  in  a  great  hurry  and  found  the  child  at 
rest.  She  breathed  her  thanks  and  reached  the  telephone 
to  give  her  signal — three  sounds  she  could  not  hear.  A 
voice  spoke  after  a  pause  which  seemed  interminable,  and 
she  said,  "  Is  that  Captain  O'Hagan  ?  " 

"  What's  left  of  him,"  Den  chuckled  over  the  wires. 
"  Why  ?  Anything  wrong  ?  " 

"  I  thought  we  were  wrecked,"  Lucy  crooned  at  the 
receiver.  "  Why  is  there  so  much  water  on  deck  and  all 
that  banging  ?  " 

"  It's  piping  up  a  bit,  oh  Mem-sahib,"  came  back  the 
answer.  "  Nothing  to  speak  of.  The  usual  thing — what 
Angus  calls  'oor  luck.'  Go  to  bed,  there's  a  dear  soul." 

"  I  thought  you  were  washed  away,  dearest.  I  woke 
with  a  number  one  scare,  and  the  banging  kept  it  going. 
What  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  drum  all  cargo-wallahs  beat,"  he  told  her. 
"  Seas  tumbling  on  board  .  .  .  nothing  to  hurt  though. 
She's  doing  fine — more  Angus  for  you.  How's  the 
kiddie?" 

"  Asleep.     He  hasn't  moved." 

"  Then  do  the  same,"  he  laughed. 

"I'll  try,"  she  answered.      "Night-night,  oh  dearest. 


HEADING  SOUTH  203 

You've  got  the  best  of  it  ...  and,  and  I'd  like  to  be  up 
there,  too  !  " 

And  as  she  stood  listening  for  his  chaffing  rejoinder,  she 
heard  the  peal  of  a  gong  on  the  bridge,  a  sudden  and  very 
clamorous  note  which  found  an  echo  in  her  sinking  courage. 
She  spoke  again.  No  answer  came — only  the  drum  note, 
the  ceaseless  thud  of  seas,  the  jangle  of  the  screw  and  that 
humming  sound  which  filled  the  cabin,  peopling  it  with 
shapes  and  fancies  which  sapped  her  strength. 

She  replaced  the  receiver  and  crossed  the  room.  It 
swayed  again  as  before,  a  steep,  lurching  bob,  then  up, 
up  with  a  quaking,  creaking  ascent  which  left  her  breath- 
less. She  reached  her  bed  and  climbed  into  it,  sitting  to 
watch  the  cot,  the  tilting  deck ;  to  wait  for  the  gushing 
swirl  which  told  her  a  sea  had  washed  her  ports  ;  to  listen 
for  the  thud  and  roar  of  water  which  swept  the  ship. 

She  was  not  afraid  in  the  sense  that  she  dreaded  personal 
injury,  or  death  by  drowning ;  but  rather  in  that  inde- 
finable sense  which  comes  of  a  highstrung  temperament. 
She  was  alone  and  quite  unused  to  it.  The  cabins  and 
saloon  which  adjoined  hers  were  tenantless  and  humming 
with  mysterious  sounds.  She  did  not  understand  the 
difference  between  a  mailship  and  a  tramp  even  of  the 
quality  of  the  Strathmuir.  Her  experience  had  been  of  the 
floating  palace  order,  and  the  wonderfully  stable  ships  of 
the  trooper  service. 

She  remembered  passing  ships  in  the  Bay  of  Bengal, 
the  Arabian  Sea  and  nearer  home,  burying  themselves  at 
each  dive  ;  vessels  which  writhed  along  like  submarines 
but  without  their  stability  or  security  from  the  slosh  of 
water  hurrying  always  from  this  side  to  that.  She  had 
looked  upon  the  thing  from  the  high  promenade  she  footed 
as  something  amusing,  something  akin  perhaps  to  the  lash 
of  waves  on  a  coast,  something  to  watch  and  laugh  over. 
And  now  she  was  imprisoned  in  one  of  these  same  vessels, 
and  not  quite  confident  of  her  powers. 

She  felt  rather  ill,  too.  She  had  never  been  so  before, 
and  she  sat  there  in  her  bed,  her  knees  drawn  up,  her  arms 
clasped  about  them  watching  the  child,  watching  the 
angles  made  by  the  cot,  the  lamp,  the  barometer  until  she 
became  dizzy. 

The  ship  had  entered  upon  an  unending  series  of  dives 
and  pirouettes  and  squealing  sidelong  lurches.  Nothing 
else  under  the  sun,  or  that  grey  curtain  which  now  was 


204  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

drawn  across  their  world.  Nothing.  The  commonplace, 
everyday  life  of  a  tramp,  which  is  known  as  a  liner, 
whether  carrying  exports  of  cement  and  iron  and 
machinery,  or  grain  and  gewgaws  for  the  nation. 

Four  o'clock  saw  daylight  peeping  through  the  veil  upon 
that  spurring  steamship  moving  in  the  wake  of  Jimmy 
Barlow.  It  sent  a  ray  of  light,  beautiful  in  chromes  and 
green,  into  the  saloon  ;  but  only  the  greyness  touched  the 
ports  which  lighted  Lucy's  cabin.  It  saw  her  leaning  back 
amidst  the  pillows,  her  cloak  still  about  her,  her  eyes  closed, 
her  dark  hair  thrown  out  across  the  white. 

She  had  much  to  learn  as  the  wife  of  one  who  com- 
manded a  cargo-wallah.  Something  to  learn  of  trust,  of 
resignation — of  a  life  which  leads  no  higher  than  to 
minister  to  the  wants  of  a  nation  too  luxurious,  too  smug  to 
consider  how  it  is  tended. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A   LEGEND    AT   DAWN 

"  OOR  luck." 

That,  after  all,  expressed  without  persiflage  the  attitude 
not  only  of  Denis  O'Hagan,  but  of  his  wife.  Once,  the 
notion  had  never  stirred.  Now  it  had  arrived  as  the  result 
of  something  they  neither  of  them  quite  understood. 

It  is  a  phrase  which  falls  very  glibly  from  the  lips  of 
those  who  are  accustomed  to  pit  their  will  and  force  against 
Nature  or  the  King's  enemies.  It  stands  in  the  repertory 
of  all,  but  is  more  real  for  those  who  fight  an  unseen  foe. 

We  march  a  column  of  men  in  close  order  up  a  hillside 
at  night  and  are  astonished  that  at  the  summit  they  are 
wiped  out — "  Oor  luck  !  "  We  set  a  steamship  to  cross  at 
full  speed  the  ice  drift  which  we  know  is  there,  and  at  the 
impact  display  amazement  that  she  has  gone  to  the 
bottom — "  Oor  luck  !  "  We  send  a  gingerbread  collier  or 
time-worn  coaster  to  face  a  gale,  laden  so  that  the  seas 
may  comfortably  climb  on  board  and  smash  her,  chip  her 
piecemeal ;  and  when  she  disappears  somebody  murmurs 
— "  Oor  luck,"  and  perhaps  it  was. 

At  Lloyd's  and  kindred  associations  no  doubt  the  luck 
is  discounted.  But  for  all  that,  when  it  comes  to  add 
up  our  losses  or  gains  at  the  end  of  a  year,  there  are  those 
among  us  who  call  it  luck  if  the  dividend  is  good,  "  oor 
luck  "  if  the  scale  is  turned  against  a  new  set  of  sables 
for  the  lady  who  honours  us  by  calling  us  "  dear  !  " 

Some  men,  it  is  true,  can  do  nothing  well,  precisely  as 
some  business  men  can  make  no  money.  That  is  in  the 
blood.  It  is  rarely  luck,  although,  in  an  aside  to  the 
Almighty,  we  profess  to  believe  it.  It  is  something 
either  in  the  individual  or  the  machine  he  tends — some- 
thing elusive. 

As  a  Bottle-filler  for  the  nation  and  one  who,  in  common 
with  all  other  Bottle-fillers,  had  no  jurisdiction  in  the 
matter,  Messieurs  les  Doctrinaires  directed  O'Hagan  to 
carry  a  deckload  which  made  the  Sphinx  top  heavy. 


206  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

They  said,  with  the  usual  flourish,  it  was  necessary  to  do 
so  in  order  that  British  ships  might  compete  on  terms 
of  equality  with  "  those  others "  who,  rival-like,  are 
banded  to  wipe  us  off  the  seas.  Then  when  she  became 
unmanageable,  and  while  the  sea,  aided  by  a  loosened 
deckload,  chipped  pieces  off  her,  she  went  ashore  to  escape 
further  torture,  and  there  were  some  who  cried  in  the 
worn  old  phrase — "  Oor  luck  !  Oor  luck  !  " 

The  banality  of  it  all !  The  supreme  humiliation  ! 
Luck !  Surrender  after  a  whipping,  is  what  it  is — 
nothing  more.  Surrender  flung  out  in  the  drawl  of  those 
a  little  hipped,  perhaps,  in  the  whine  of  those  hammered. 

It  is  not  luck  at  all,  but  incompetence.  Incom- 
petence sometimes  of  man,  it  is  true,  sometimes  of 
machinery ;  but  more  often  of  that  power  which  stands 
over  both  man  and  his  machine — Messieurs  les  Doctri- 
naires. 

O'Hagan  had  heard  the  phrase  so  often  of  late  that  he 
was  beginning  to  believe  in  it.  He  forgot  that  there  is  no 
more  certain  method  of  becoming  unlucky  than  by  pin- 
ning your  faith  to  luck. 

Witness  this  man's  career.  He  stood  at  the  top  of  his 
profession,  such  as  it  is,  with  certificates  of  the  highest 
grade.  An  officer  of  the  Mail-service — no  smudge  any- 
where. Then  because  of  Lucy  Faulkner's  love  he  came 
down  from  stateliness,  and,  to  earn  more,  entered  the 
ranks  as  skipper  of  the  Sphinx.  There,  if  you  will,  the 
element  of  luck  came  in.  It  was  his  fortune  that  he 
accepted  the  word  of  a  person  who  on  the  Turf  would  be 
termed  a  welsher,  warned  off,  branded.  Thereafter  any 
man  trafficking  with  him  would  do  it  at  his  peril ;  but 
that  is  not  a  method  which  commends  itself  to  the  ship- 
ping community.  It  believes  in  competition — open  and 
untrammelled.  So  too  does  the  Turf — but  it  brands  a 
scoundrel  with  "  Welsher." 

And  now  mark  O'Hagan  as  he  stood  there  to  direct  the 
plunging,  dividend-earning  Straihmuir,  She  was  fighting 
her  first  gale.  No  soul  on  board  knew  how  she  would 
behave.  She  was  as  new  to  the  sea  as  they  were  to  her 
posturings.  Every  ship  has  her  tricks,  yet  there  was  no 
flurry  in  O'Hagan's  attitude,  no  questioning  indecision. 
Experience  in  many  vessels  had  taught  him  what  to  do, 
and  he  did  it.  But  already  he  mentally  noted  that  had 
he  been  able  to  control  her  lading  she  would  have  revelled 


A  LEGEND  AT  DAWN  207 

in  more  freeboard.  Any  officer  on  her  bridge  or  in  his 
bed,  either  engineer,  from  Angus  to  the  boiler-maker, 
would  already  have  been  prepared  to  say — "  With  six 
inches  more  side  she  would  be  clean."  At  the  moment, 
though,  she  was  dirty  as  the  phrase  goes,  wet- — one  of  the 
finer  type  it  is  true,  but  wet  and  only  a  fraction  less 
dangerous  to  her  crew  than  are  the  Sphinx-like  vessels  of 
earlier  days. 

"  Too  deep,  old  son  !  "  sang  one. 

"  She's  bitten  off  more  than  she  can  chew,  dry," 
another. 

And  in  the  log-books  mates  and  engineers  entered  the 
stirring  phrase — "  Strong  gale.  Ship  labouring  heavily 
and  shipping  heavy  seas." 

In  similar  conditions  though,  O'Hagan  remembered 
that  the  Sphinx  would  have  broken  things  up,  as  he 
phrased  it. 

At  seven  o'clock  he  made  his  way  aft  to  bathe  his  eyes 
and  take  a  cup  of  tea  with  Lucy.  He  had  been  on  deck 
all  night  as  well  as  the  whole  of  the  previous  day.  Lucy 
had  been  asleep  only  since  dawn.  They  met  with  the 
cry  which  was  their  new  watchword — "  How's  the  kiddie, 
Mem-sahib  ?  "  and  Lucy  lifting  from  her  pillows — 

"  The  kiddie's  slept  like  a  top."  Then—"  Oh  !  Den 
— I  did  want  you  last  night."  She  snuggled  in  his  arms. 
He  had  discarded  his  oilskins  and  stood  close. 

"  I  tried  to  get  to  you  once,"  she  faltered.  "  I  was  so 
scared." 

"  Scared— you  ?  " 

He  held  back  smiling.  She  nodded,  clinging  the  more 
tightly. 

"  What  of  ?  "    he  breathed. 

She  shook  that  off,  lifting  her  face  to  his. 

"  I  wanted  you,  oh  dearest — and,  and — I  felt  a  new 
sort  of  panic  .  .  .  don't  know  why,  or  what  about.  All 
that  jumping,  perhaps,  and  the  water  pouring  over  us  ... 
will  she  be  like  that  always,  Den  ?  " 

"  While  the  bunkers  are  full,"  he  answered,  "  and  there's 
a  gale  .  .  .  she  will  get  better  though  when  we've  burnt 
a  bit  more  coal." 

"  When  ?  " 

"  Three  or  four  days." 

"  But  we  shall  be  in  fine  weather  then  ?  " 

"  Yes " 


208  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

Ci  Then  that  won't  help  us,  Den." 

"  I  admit  she's  a  bit  wet,"  he  admitted  ruefully. 

"  Wetter  than  you  expected  ?  " 

"  Yes — perhaps.  .  .  .  No,  I  can't  say  that.  They  are 
all  wet  these  days.  It's  the  way  she's  loaded  .  .  .  but 
she's  solid,  safe  as  houses.  Come  on  deck  and  see  how  she 
goes  through  it.  She's  fine.  If  you  had  been  in  the  old 
Sphinx  you  would  see  the  difference.  This  is  yachting. 
Get  some  things  on  and  come  on  deck." 

**  What  about  the  kiddie,  dearest  ?  "  she  whispered. 

They  turned  to  consider  this  and  found  the  boy  asleep, 
rosy,  beautiful. 

"  He's  snug  enough,"  O'Hagan  smiled.  "  Put  Mrs. 
Cruickshank  in  charge  and  come  up  for  a  blow.  It  will 
do  you  good." 

She  pushed  back  the  blankets  and  he  discovered  that 
she  was  dressed. 

"  Good  gracious  !  All  standing  !  "  he  chuckled.  "  You 
don't  mean  to  say  you've  been  like  that  all  night  ?  " 

"  Since  one  o'clock,  oh  dearest,"  she  smiled  up  at  him. 
"  You  see  I  was  alone,  Den  .  .  .  and,  and  I  hadn't  got 
used  to  the — the  jumping  I  expect." 

He  considered  this  gravely  as  she  climbed  from  bed. 
For  a  moment  it  came  into  his  mind  that  she  no  longer 
had  confidence  in  his  skill :  that  the  wreck,  trial,  and 
suspension  in  which  he  had  become  involved,  had  cost 
him  more  than  he  dreamed.  But  a  glance  at  the  sunny 
smile  she  lifted  disarmed  him. 

"  Come  out,"  he  whispered,  "  it  will  do  you  more  good 
than  anything  else.  Come  out — you  are  my  Queen." 

She  stood  still,  uncertain  of  his  meaning. 

"  For  a  moment,"  he  explained,  "  I  thought  you  were 
afraid  because — oh,  because  I  lost  the  Sphinx."  He 
laughed,  but  she  caught  his  arm  and  clung  there  throbbing. 
"  Stupid,  wasn't  it,"  he  commented.  "  I  am  jolly  glad 
you  were  able  to  come  with  me,  if  it  is  only  to  show  you 
what  a  fool  .  .  ." 

He  paused  ;  her  breast  pulsed  beneath  his  hand  and 
hers.  She  said  softly — 

"  Was  that  necessary,  Den  ?  " 

"  Which  ?  " 

"  To  test  me  ?  " 

"  No — no  .  .  .  but  those  beasts  rubbed  it  in  so — and 
your  uncle  scarcely  softened  the  sting,"  he  fumbled, 


A  LEGEND  AT  DAWN  209 

flushed  and  curiously  boylike.  "  I  was  beginning  to 
think  everybody  must  have  a  sort  of  feeling  that  I  was 
more  or  less  a  fool  .  .  .  and,  and  I  couldn't  bear  that 
from  you,  Mem-sahib.  ..." 

"  You  need  not  fear,"  she  whispered,  halting  him. 

"  Yet  it  crops  up,  you  know,"  he  added,  staring  at  the 
leaden  horizon  which  declined  swiftly  as  they  swayed 
near  a  port. 

"  Banish  it,  my  darling,"  she  begged,  her  face  alight 
and  swiftly  pleading. 

He  took  that  with  a  smile,  a  touch  of  the  brogue  pushed 
out  to  calm  her. 

"  I'll  thry,"  he  said.  "  Sure,  an'  you  would  wheedle 
the  stock  off  an  anchor  wid  your  blarney.  There  .  .  . 
I  promise,"  he  kissed  her  lips.  "  An'  it's  well  for  me  an' 
you  there's  no  one  to  see  how  you  thwist  me  round  your 
finger.  Come  on  deck,  mavourneen,  come  on  deck  and  see 
her  go.  I'm  in  luck  at  last  and  want  you  to  know  it." 

"  Of  course  you  are,"  she  laughed.     "  I  brought  it !  " 


B.F. 


CHAPTER   X 

LAVS  DEO 

FROM  her  point  of  vantage  on  the  Strathmuir'' s  screened, 
lower  bridge  it  seemed  to  Lucy  that  the  ship  no  longer 
moved.  In  her  cabin  she  had  been  sensible  of  an  immense 
speed,  a  headlong  butting  at  the  seas  which  hissed  past 
her  ports  ;  but  up  here  all  that  gave  place  to  something 
entirely  unlike  speed,  something  indeed  pointing  to  a  halt. 
She  could  not  reconcile  the  two  conditions,  and  Denis, 
who  was  already  gone  to  the  navigator's  bridge  to  direct 
their  progress,  could  not  be  called  on  to  explain. 

Lucy  stood  in  consequence  alone,  clinging  to  the  rail, 
a  rope  girdle  about  her  waist.  It  seemed  necessary  to 
examine  this  problem  which  had  so  frightened  her  during 
the  night.  Up  here  it  was  flustering  and  tremendous. 
Den  called  it  a  summer's  gale  ;  but  the  Strathmuir  made 
a  terrible  to  do  at  facing  it — that  she  admitted  thrilling. 
It  was  indeed  a  fine  slashing,  head  and  heels  dance,  at 
once  inspiring  and  dreadful  to  consider.  Did  all  ships 
kick  these  capers  ?  She  questioned  it. 

A  sea  creamed  over  the  rail  and  immediately  beneath 
her  was  a  white  yeast  of  foam — water  hurrying  from  side 
to  side,  bubbling,  noisy — and  beyond  the  narrow  and 
tilting  construction  she  footed  it  was  worse.  The 
Strathmuir  looked  like  a  plank  on  a  boiling  sea.  In  all 
her  travels  to  and  from  India,  China  and  Egypt,  Lucy  had 
never  seen  the  sea  quite  like  this,  never  been  so  near  its 
bristles,  never  had  dinned  in  her  ears  its  message  of  supreme 
and  herded  contempt  for  mankind,  his  ships  and  his 
formulas.  Nor  had  she  ever  before  considered  the 
matter. 

From  the  high  and  secure  insecurity  of  those  decks  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  promenade  the  seas  had  usually 
appeared  very  futile,  small  and  tame.  The  passengers 
engaged  in  marching  airily  their  mile  or  so,  to  create  a 
breakfast  or  dinner  appetite,  were  ready  to  appraise  them 
at  something  less  than  their  full  value.  They  were  ready 


LAUS  DEO  211 

indeed  to  accuse  the  dear  old  Saladin  of  rolling,  the 
monotonous  and  rather  solemn  roll  of  a  heavily  weighted 
pendulum  ;  but  they  had  never  quite  understood  what 
rolling  was.  And  now  Lucy  was  taking  it  in  ;  acknow- 
ledging, too,  that  it  was  less  tame  here,  less  smooth,  more 
touched  with  danger — for  those  who  walk  the  deck,  tend 
a  ship,  and  get  her  in  face  of  odds  from  port  to  port. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  perhaps  a  mile,  perhaps 
two,  was  a  whitened  circle  of  valleys  and  hills  in  im- 
pressive and  kaleidoscopic  ranges.  The  Strathmuir  moved 
amidst  these  seas  as  a  runner  on  ski  labours  upon  an  uneven 
surface.  She  floundered  among  hills  which  rolled  to 
greet  her.  She  came  down  one  and  found  another  at 
her  toes.  She  dug  into  it,  climbed  cheerily  to  its  summit, 
see-sawed  there  asking  how  she  should  take  it,  then  flounced 
quaking  in  the  hole  it  had  left  in  its  wake.  There  was  no 
end  to  those  hills.  If  she  happened  to  be  on  even  keel 
when  one  passed  she  drank  greedily  on  either  side  ;  if 
she  lay  over,  she  scooped  of  the  thing  in  tons,  and  the 
jar  of  its  advent  sent  a  thrill  all  through  her  strained 
butts  as  she  picked  herself  amazingly  white  from  the  hole. 

Well,  after  all,  that  was  her  business. 

As  Lucy  had  discovered,  she  moved  very  slowly.  At 
first  it  appeared  that  she  could  never  by  any  contrivance 
of  jerks  climb  back  from  a  dive  ;  but  with  time  it  became 
evident  that  this  was  her  considered  method  of  pro- 
gression in  what  Den  had  called  "  a  bit  of  a  flare  up." 
Perhaps.  And  when  they  took  into  account  the  wonder- 
ful switchback  they  traversed,  it  was  plain  why  the  ship 
seemed  to  dive  ten  times  at  one  hole  before  gathering  way 
enough  to  reach  others. 

It  was  all  very  marvellous.  The  ship  suggested  by  her 
posturings  that  this  was  nothing,  very  small  beer,  that 
one  should  wait  until  a  sea  arrived  such  as  would  be 
found  out  of  soundings.  This  was  a  babble,  a  boiling 
pot  into  which  the  blunt  wedge  of  her  bow  plunged,  hid, 
and  presently  emerged  climbing  the  grey  dome  as  a  matter 
of  course.  She  had,  perhaps,  the  sense  of  victory  each 
time  she  emerged,  the  sense  which  a  man  finds  who  shows 
day  after  day  some  trick  of  wonderful  risk  in  mid-air, 
knowing  that  it  adds  zest  to  the  "  turn."  But  all  this 
was  really  thought  out  in  Glasgow,  hammered  into  her  in 
steel,  trimmed  and  twisted  and  rolled  into  that  degree 
of  endurance  which  comes  at  length  to  be  reckoned  as 

p  2 


212  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

seaworthiness.  The  old  Sphinx  would  have  twisted  out 
rivets  in  this  hubbub  ;  the  Strathmuir  marched  as  though 
no  hubbub  were  there,  slowly  it  is  true,  with  the  grind 
and  crunch  of  a  steam-roller. 

With  her  maw  full,  full  as  Liverpool  dare  cram  it,  full 
as  London  or  Cardiff  or  Glasgow  itself  in  these  days  could 
cram  it,  she  sloshed  like  a  half-tide  rock  through  seas 
which  could  not  harm  her  as  they  would  some  others,  but 
would  easily  harm  those  who  tended  her. 

Down  there  in  the  well  of  the  ship  Lucy  presently 
realised  was  a  hatchway  which  at  daylight  men  dis- 
covered "  somehow  "  stripped  of  a  tarpaulin.  The  boiling 
Channel  seas  had  done  this.  Men  appeared  amidst  the 
swirl  drenched  and  exclamatory  as  they  fought  for  safety. 
If  one  tarpaulin  is  ripped  the  others  may  follow  ;  if  one 
set  of  clamps  and  wedges  is  torn  away  all  are  in  danger — 
therefore  it  is  essential  always  to  repair  damages  when 
they  are  seen. 

Four  or  five  men  were  at  work  in  this  pit  which  Lucy 
faced  wondering.  How  long  they  had  endured  she  did 
not  know.  It  made  her  gasp  to  watch  them.  She  was 
unconscious  of  their  danger  but  conscious  of  their 
bedraggled  appearance,  of  the  flattening  power  of  the 
seas  which  struck  them.  From  the  security  of  a  mail- 
ship's  deck  it  would  have  seemed  amusing  as  to  watch  the 
tub-tilters  who  gain  a  livelihood  by  fooling  in  the  surf  of  a 
watering-place  ;  but  on  the  Strathmuir' 's  bridge,  not  very 
high  above  the  main  deck,  Lucy  was  too  near  to  qualify 
for  applause.  Besides,  Denis  seemed  anxious.  He  was 
manoeuvring  the  engines  and  the  helm  so  that  the 
Strathmuir  should  not  add  to  the  men's  danger  by  pro- 
ceeding too  jauntily.  Now  and  again  his  voice  was 
raised  in  warning,  then  the  men  made  haste  to  escape,  and 
again  returned  to  hammer  and  wrestle  with  screws,  bars, 
wedges  and  a  great  black  cloth  which  they  were  fastening 
upon  the  others. 

They  worked  in  rushes.  Sometimes  nothing  at  all 
was  done.  Sometimes  laughter  was  heard,  sometimes  the 
jargon  men  talk  when  engaged  in  a  fight.  Then  Lucy 
noted  a  cry,  short  and  crisp,  from  the  navigating  bridge — 
"  Look  out,  there  !  "  and  found  herself  breathless  and 
clinging  more  tightly  to  the  rail  she  faced.  She  could  not 
then  have  explained  why  she  clung,  why  it  suddenly 
seemed  that  she  was  hanging  over  a  trap  which  was 


LAVS  DEO  213 

bottomless  ;  but  she  knew  that  a  great  weight  had  come 
upon  her  arms,  a  weight  which  strove  to  force  her  back- 
wards. It  was  her  own  weight. 

The  Strathmuir  had  stumbled  on  "a  nasty  one,"  that  is 
all.  One  of  those  odd  rollers  which  march  the  playground 
looking  for  something  to  knock  down,  bowl  over  and  maim. 
The  men  who  worked  on  the  hatch  felt  the  thing  coming. 
It  was  foreshadowed  by  the  appalling  climb  attempted 
by  the  Strathmuir,  by  the  swift  death  of  the  wind,  and  the 
breaker-like  roar  which  crashed  upon  the  silence.  They 
heard,  too,  O'Hagan's  shout  and  made  for  security  in  a 
bunch  ;  but  the  sudden  spring  of  that  giant  of  Soundings 
shook  them  and  one  stumbled. 

Then  the  sea  swept  solid  as  a  wall  upon  the  bulkhead, 
and  taking  the  fallen  sailor  on  its  tide,  used  him  as  a 
battering  ram  ;  as  a  bolt  thrown  by  a  catapult  upon 
walls  of  steel  rolled  in  the  mills  of  Glasgow. 

It  is  known  as  soft  steel ;  but  it  sufficed.  And  when  the 
man  was  very  still  the  seas  which  filled  the  well  played 
rounders  with  him  until  those  who  were  unsilenced  rescued 
what  was  left  of  him  and  carried  it  below. 

Broken  arms,  thigh  bones,  shanks  ;  dislocations,  abra- 
sions, Bottle-fillers  the  world  over  are  prepared  to  doctor ; 
but  a  skull  which  has  received  injuries  at  the  hands  of 
mild  steel  is  beyond  all  amateur  surgery. 

Therefore  the  man  died,  and  the  sea  down  there  by  the 
Great  Sole  Bank  received  him  in  the  grey  dawn  which 
followed. 

There  were,  of  course,  those  on  board  who,  arguing  from 
the  plenitude  of  their  knowledge,  saw  in  this  christening 
incident  an  omen  of  what  is  called  bad  luck. 

There  were  others  who  considered  that  after  all  it  is  as 
comfortable  to  be  knocked  out  by  a  sea  as  in  a  crank-pit ; 
as  well  to  be  brained  on  deck  as  driven  mad  in  an  engine- 
room.  There  were  others,  a  minority  too,  who  said  that 
if  a  man  can't  look  after  himself  when  a  ship  is  in  a  sea-way, 
it  is  his  own  fault  if  he  is  hurt.  There  were  others  who 
talked  viciously  and  stupidly  of  what  they  would  do  with 
the  head  of  authority,  could  they  "  get  it  in  that  wash." 
They  damned  the  new  rule,  the  men  who  framed  it,  the 
experts  who  advised  it — but  with  greater  vehemence  they 
damned  the  personage  who,  in  the  seclusion  of  his  office, 
made  it  what  they  called  "  Law." 


214  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

Angus,  however,  in  an  aside  to  Mrs.  O'Hagan,  summed 
up  the  situation  without  having  heard  the  varying 
comments. 

"  All  ships  are  dirty  under  the  new  order,"  he  said, 
"  but  some  are  dirtier  than  others.  Wait  till  we  get  out 
of  this  popple  before  ye  smudge  a  verra  desairvin' 
steamship.' 

And  to  Lucy's  astonishment  her  husband  rather  backed 
this  opinion. 

"  I  have  very  little  doubt  from  what  the  mate  tells  me, 
that  the  man  was  a  bit  of  a  greenhorn,"  he  announced. 
"  You  can't  play  the  fool  when  a  ship  is  deep  and  in  a 
sea-way.  Poor  devil — he  knows  that  now." 

They  all  knew. 

As  the  hours  passed,  and  by  slow  degrees  the  sea  became 
less  broken,  they  recognised  that  only  a  staunch  vessel 
could  have  emerged  from  that  stirred-up  wrath  unharmed. 
Then  as  they  drew  out  of  it,  they  met  the  Atlantic  roll. 

They  still  climbed  and  fell  in  ordered  monotony, 
rolled,  twisted,  lurched  ;  they  still  filched  something  from 
each  giant  as  it  passed  ;  but  there  remained  no  longer 
to  harass  them  the  thing  seamen  call  a  "  popple,"  a 
"  boiling  pot  "  with  deceptive  adjectives  flaringly  evident ; 
they  had  come  out  of  that  and  discovered  once  more  the 
Atlantic  hills  and  dales.  They  found  comfort  in  the  fact. 

Then  when  they  were  rather  more  than  midway  across 
the  bay,  the  wind  moved  to  the  north  and  fell.  Finisterre 
they  passed  in  a  glassy  calm,  the  sun  pouring  down  upon 
them,  decks  dry,  sailors  basking,  firemen  sweltering — 
sea  boots  turned  with  mouths  gaping,  set  wide  to  the  heat. 
Vigo,  where  Jimmy  Barlow  had  put  in  to  repair  damages, 
they  passed  as  though  it  were  not.  The  Burlings  looked 
down  upon  them,  through  a  heat  haze  which  miraged 
the  further  land.  Roca  took  signals  from  flags  which 
stood  out  only  because  impelled  by  the  draught  of  the 
ship's  passage.  Lanes  of  steamers  converge  here.  From 
the  north  they  come,  from  the  south,  from  the  east,  some 
few  from  the  west,  drawing  long  lines  of  smoke  upon  the 
blue  sea.  In  the  main  they  are  the  ships  which  feed 
England  and  carry  her  produce  to  the  lands  of  the  sun. 

And  so,  now  with  a  light  breeze  fanning  them  from  the 
west,  now  with  the  dawdling  north-east  trades,  they  moved 
on,  gaining  slowly  on  the  little  Casa  Blanca,  the  will-o'-the- 


LAVS  DEO  213 

wisp  tug  which  was  to  win  back  a  man's  honour.  They 
questioned  of  the  signal  stations  had  she  passed,  and 
received  a  last  word  of  her  progress  at  the  De  Verdes. 
They  learned  that  Jimmy  Barlow  was  pushing  on,  that 
he  was  "  all  well,"  and  judged  him  to  be  halfway  across 
that  great  stretch  which  lies  between  the  islands  and 
Pernambuco. 

O'Hagan  pored  over  the  chart  plotting  out  Jimmy 
Barlow's  will-o'-the-wisp  passage  with  as  keen  an  interest 
as  that  given  to  his  own.  He  was  in  the  tropics,  somewhere 
between  St.  Paul's  Rock  and  Fernando  Noronha,  that 
signal  island  for  the  old  time  sailing  ships  warning  them 
to  stand  east  if  they  desired  to  escape  the  calms  of  Brazil. 

The  Strathmuir  was  in  the  tropics  also.  Lighter  than 
when  she  faced  that  gale  in  Soundings,  awnings  spread  over 
her,  clinkers  ascending  from  the  great  mouth  of  her  funnel 
and  descending  in  showers  upon  their  whiteness.  Dream- 
days  of  airy  brilliance,  the  wind  presently  coming  across 
the  smooth  sea  in  violet  patches  from  the  south  ;  still 
nights  of  starlit  radiance  when  Lucy  sat  in  a  long  deck 
chair  at  work  on  Baba's  small  garments,  and  Den  reclined 
beside  her,  the  bridge  less  imperiously  his  master. 

She  had  learned  to  know  the  gallant  Strathmuir  and 
to  trust  her  buoyancy.  The  close  approach  of  the  sea 
no  longer  troubled  her.  The  tilting,  climbing  misery  of 
a  sea-way  were  things  pushed  away  and  forgotten.  Baba 
took  kindly  to  his  experience,  crowed,  drank,  gurgled 
and  grew  amazingly  wise.  He  learned  that  hair  was 
provided  in  order  to  be  pulled,  and  pulled  it.  He  learned 
that  it  is  fine,  in  the  tropics,  to  be  without  shoes,  and 
twisted  toes  in  triumph.  He  learned  to  wear  fewer 
garments. 

Den,  too,  had  forgotten  his  troubles.  He  was  the  boy- 
man  Lucy  had  learned  to  love  on  the  Saladin,  a  little 
graver  perhaps,  as  became  the  father  of  a  son  and  heir  and 
the  master  of  a  ship's  progress  ;  but  her  sailor-lover  whose 
destiny  as  a  commander  in  the  Eastern  Mail  service, 
R.N.R.,  and  perhaps  R.D.,  and  D.S.O.,  had  been  changed 
for  the  masterhood  of  a  tramp  in  order  that  they  two  might 
journey  through  life  together. 

They  confessed  content.  At  the  moment  they  asked 
no  other  happiness. 

The  Strathmuir  moved  alone  in  these  days,  the  sole  occu- 
pant of  a  circle  which  held  them  for  its  hub.  The  track 


216  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

they  drew  was  but  the  beginning  of  an  endless  array  which 
the  years  must  see.  It  vanished  now  in  a  northern  haze, 
and  with  its  growth  had  vanished  trouble.  God  be 
praised  ! 

Sometimes  they  crossed  a  shoal  of  porpoise  and  leaned 
out  to  watch  the  gambolling  ;  sometimes  that  pink  and 
white  fragility  we  know  as  the  nautilus  was  the  sole 
adventurer  in  their  path  ;  sometimes,  with  clipping  note, 
a  shoal  of  flying  fish  dashed  past  their  bulk.  For  the  rest 
there  was  quiet,  a  placid  sea  of  marvellous  iridescence, 
clouds  of  the  filmiest,  and  the  ceaseless  throb  of  the  heart 
of  the  ship,  deep  down  where  Angus  and  his  men  worked 
shirtless  and  unashamed. 

Peace  had  fallen  upon  the  fortunes  of  Denis  O'Hagan, 
Lucy  O'Hagan,  and  that  small  O'Hagan  who  had  had  the 
temerity  to  get  himself  born.  Peace  at  the  beckoning  of 
Worsdale,  the  king  and  fine  judge  of  men. 

But  beyond  stood  McClure,  even  as  beyond  the  tropics 
there  stood  for  Jimmy  Barlow  the  Southern  Ocean. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   WAY   TO   THE    STAES 

AMIDST  the  flat  brownness  of  that  shallow  and  turgid 
estuary  to  which  the  Spaniards  gave  the  ringing  name  of 
Rio  de  la  Plata,  the  Strathmuir's  voyagers  presently 
descried  their  will-o'-the-wisp  friend,  the  Casa  Blanca. 
The  river  which  receives  the  mud  and  rotting  vegetation 
of  the  Parana,  Uruguay,  and  their  giant  tributaries,  carried 
over  there  beyond  the  lightship,  shoulder  high,  a  little 
tug  at  anchor,  dressed  in  flags. 

It  was  the  rainbow  dressing  that  drew  O:Hagan's 
glasses  to  search  her  out,  and  in  a  moment  his  practised 
sailor  eyes  told  him  of  Jimmy  Barlow's  success.  They 
drew  nearer  and  espied  Jimmy  Barlow  himself  marching 
his  small  bridge,  telescope  under  arm,  ready  at  the  correct 
moment  to  salute  his  old  commander. 

They  drew  alongside,  going  dead  slow,  and  a  cheer  fell 
on  Jimmy  Barlow's  ears  to  encourage  him.  Then  O'Hagan's 
voice  speaking  through  a  megaphone  said — 

"Well  done,  Casa  Blanca'" — and  Jimmy  Barlow 
thrilled  as  he  stood  at  the  salute,  his  small  Chilean  ensign 
dropped  to  the  taffrail  while  the  giant  moved  past. 

"  I  am  sailing  to-night,"  crooned  Jimmy,  when    the 
ensigns  again  fluttered  at  the  trucks.     "  I  meant  to  sail 
this  morning,  but  I  heard  you  were  spoken." 
"  Come  on  board  !  "  O'Hagan  cried. 
"  I  will,  if  I  swim,"  returned  Jimmy  Barlow ;  then  he 
made  for  a  boat  which  hung  at  the  quarter. 

"  Stop  !  "  came  the  order,  and  instantly  the  engine 
room  telegraph  clanged.  The  pilot  was  amazed,  but  he 
considered  it  wise  to  take  no  heed  of  the  affront.  It  was 
obvious  there  would  be  but  little  delay,  and  the  brown 
flood  ran  smoothly  past,  gurgling  with  the  weight  of  the 
slime  it  carried.  He  crossed  over  and  stared  at  the  small 
tug  which  had  brought  this  stately  one  to  a  halt.  These 
capitans  of  ships  Ingleses  were  strange  beings.  Masterful 
• — oh,  yes !  He  twisted  a  cigarette,  lighted  arfd  breathed 


218  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

smoke.     "  Bime-by,  in  little  time  or  in  big  time,  we  go 
on  'gain.     No  importa." 

He  remained  watching  until  Jimmy  Barlow  climbed  on 
board  and  O'Hagan  ran  down  to  the  lower  bridge  to  greet 
him.  He  saw  him  grasp  O'Hagan's  hand  and  heard 
that  strange  capitan,  who  so  far  had  spoken  neither  of 
welcome  nor  of  his  voyage  to  the  pilot,  say — 

"  By  gad !  Jimmy,  but  this  is  great.  I  do  like  your 
pluck.  .  .  .  Come  up  and  see  Mrs.  O'Hagan." 

The  pilot  lifted  his  shoulders  and,  looking  down,  said 
scathingly — 

"  Per'aps  now,  Senor  Capitan,  we  make  move  of  the 
engine — go  on — no  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  pilot.  By  all  means.  I  will  be  there  in  a 
minute." 

The  Strathmuir  responded  once  more  to  the  thrill  of  a 
propeller  which  had  pushed  her  thus  far  in  safety  over 
the  seas. 

And  on  the  lower  bridge  Lucy  and  Denis  and  Jimmy 
Barlow  exchanged  rapidly  the  outstanding  features  of 
their  individual  trips.  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  yes — she's  a  fine  sea-boat ;  but  I  got  an  awful 
dressing  off  Finisterre  .  .  .  thought  she  was  for  down 
the  cellar,"  said  Jimmy  Barlow,  his  face  puckered  with 
laughter.  He  fingered  the  new  stubble  which  covered 
his  chin  as  of  old. 

"  Ah  !  we  heard  of  that  .  .  .  heard  you  had  gone  on, 
too  ;  then  we  started  and  got  caught  in  Channel." 

"  Edge  of  Soundings,  sir  ?  " 

"  Faith  !     You've  hit  it." 

"  I  got  through  there  pretty  slick,"  said  Jimmy  Barlow. 

"  And  we  got  it  fine  in  the  Bay." 

"  Just  where  I  had  it  rough.  I  got  no  peace  till  after  we 
left  Agadir  .  .  .  since  then  we've  been  yachting.  Fallen 
on  our  feet,  sir,  in  spite  of  'em."  He  shadowed  the  Board 
of  Trade  here  and  the  straits  they  had  endured  since  their 
trial  at  Jake  Hall.  "  Who  would  have  thought  it  ?  "  he 
inquired,  his  eyes  grave,  the  cockney  accent  pushed  away. 

"  Neither  of  us,"  O'Hagan  admitted. 

Jimmy  Barlow  cast  an  admiring  glance  over  the  trim 
decks — "  You've  got  a  fine  ship,  sir,  too." 

'^Rather.     One  of  the  Glasgow  bull  dogs." 

"  Can't  beat  'em,"  said  Jimmy  Barlow. 

"  True— you  can't.  .  .  .  Well,  we  must  have  a  yarn 


THE  WAY  TO  THE  STARS  219 

presently.  As  soon  as  I  can  get  her  fast  I  will  be  with 
you  again.  .  .  .  Lucy,  take  him  along  and  show  him  the 
boy." 

With  that  Captain  O'Hagan  rejoined  a  disconsolate 
Argentine  and  stood  to  see  that  he  did  no  damage  to  the 
liner  Strathmuir,  which  had  halted  and  so  flatteringly 
taken  notice  of  a  tug  boat. 

The  pilot  continued  to  smoke  cigarettes  until  he  was 
relieved  by  an  equally  accomplished  craftsman  at  the 
port ;  then  he  presented  his  paper  for  signature,  saluted, 
and  gravely  entered  his  boat.  But  it  was  not  until  after 
lunch,  and  the  Strathmuir  secure  at  the  wharf,  that 
O'Hagan  could  spare  time  to  talk  quietly  with  his  friend. 

Jimmy  Barlow  was  Henry  Tompson  as  on  that  day 
when  the  two  men  met  at  the  Isle  of  Dogs.  He  would  have 
resented  from  anyone  else  that  old  name  which  had  been 
dragged  through  the  mire.  Jimmy  Barlow  was  dead,  and 
strangely  the  mannerisms  of  Henry  Tompson  were  less 
violent.  Enery  was  no  longer  enforced.  He  permitted 
the  aspirate  to  appear,  and  no  longer  misapplied  it. 

He  explained  to  O'Hagan  that  it  was  necessary  at  the 
Isle  of  Dogs  where  the  other  Henry  Tompson  might  have 
been  known,  but  here — "  Well,  it  ain't  worth  the  trouble 
of  thinking.  I  got  back  my  h's  with  a  jump — no  one 
aboard  the  Casa  knows  the  differ,  an'  I'm  gettin'  back  my 
beard  by  degrees."  He  fingered  the  brown  stubble  as  he 
rose  from  the  table,  smiling  sheepishly  at  Mrs.  O'Hagan, 
who  declared  openly  that  she  preferred  clean  chins. 

The  two  men  passed  through  the  saloon  and  made  their 
way  to  the  chart  room.  O'Hagan  visualised  a  smoke  ;  but 
Jimmy  Barlow,  in  spite  of  a  large  cigar,  was  not  at  his 
ease.  He  returned  again  and  again  to  the  question  of 
his  wonderful  luck- — "  Will  it  hold  ?  "  he  threw  out. 
"  Can  it  possibly  hold — down  here  .  .  .  ?  " 

O'Hagan  saw  the  drift  and  rallied  him  on  it.  "  It 
depends  entirely  on  yourself,"  he  said  at  length.  "  If 
you  are  game  and  don't  take  unnecessary  risks  you  will 
win.  .  .  ." 

"  May  I  shut  the  door  ?  "  asked  Jimmy  Barlow,  with  a 
puff  of  smoke  which  hid  him. 

"  Certainly." 

"  It  will  make  it  warm,  but  I  don't  want  all  hands  to 


220  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

know  that  I  have  any  belief  in  that  sort  of  thing.  I 
haven't,  either,  if  it  comes  to  plain  talk.  Never  had 
.  .  .  but — well,  I'm  bothered.  .  .  ." 

He  came  back  from  shutting  the  door  and  sat  on  the 
stool  which  stood  before  the  chart  table,  facing  O'Hagan. 

"  I'm  bothered  for  the  first  time  this  trip  by  something 
I'm  not  accustomed  to.  ...  I  don't  know  how  to  fight  it. 
You  can  slam  at  a  gale,  if  your  boat's  one  of  the  right  sort ; 
but  you  can't  slam  at  an  idea.  Yes — that's  it.  An  idea — 
a  silly,  no-sense  sort  of  thing  drummed  into  me  by  my 
mate — a  chap  I  should  have  sworn  hadn't  two  in  his  nut 
.  .  .  not  two  to  knock  one  against  the  other — no,  siree, 
not  one.  Then  he  outs  with  this  dream  thing  of  his  and 
knocks  me  off  my  pins  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  as  if  I'm 
a  kid.  .  .  ." 

The  depth  of  his  degradation  was  nicely  graded  by 
Jimmy  Barlow's  rich  voice.  He  laughed  at  himself,  he 
jeered  at  the  mate,  but  he  came  back  in  a  circle  to  question 
how  much  was  true  and  whether  laughter  was  precisely 
the  kind  of  weapon  he  should  use. 

"  A  dream  ?  "  O'Hagan  repeated,  not  in  mockery,  but 
with  the  sense  of  wonder  evident  in  his  eyes. 

"  Just  that,"  said  Jimmy  Barlow.  Then  he  blew  a  fine 
flurry  of  cigar  smoke  and  looking  through  it  added,  "  not 
mine  either,  sir.  Don't  know  that  I  ever  had  a  dream  in 
my  life.  Not  had  much  time  to  play  the  fool  with 
dreams  .  .  .  but,  well,  the  fact  is  my  mate  left  me.  And 
it  was  because  of  a  dream.  Waralah  on  the  brain  .  .  . 
that's  what's  the  matter  with  him.  Don't  know  when 
he's  comfortable,  sir  ...  don't  know  enough  to  keep 
himself  warm,  if  you  ask  me — an' yet" — his  voice  dropped 
slightly — "  of  course  there  are  true  dreams  now  an'  again 
.  .  .  like  everything  else  that's  a  toss  up  anyhow.  ..." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  O'Hagan,  as  Jimmy  Barlow  leaned 
forward,  elbows  on  knees  and  forgot  to  smoke. 

"  Oh  !  as  far  as  that  goes  there's  nothing  to  tell.  Seems 
he  had  this  dream  first  when  we  sighted  Pernambuco,  but 
he  said  nothing  about  it  till  one  night  after  we  got  away 
from  Rio,  then  when  I  relieved  him  at  twelve  o'clock,  says 
he — '  Cap'n,  if  we  fetch  the  Plate ' — 'if,'  you  note— 
4  you '11  have  to  find  anover  chap  to  take  on  my  job.' 
'So  ? '  says  I ;  '  how's  that  ?  '  '  Don't  feel  comfortable,' 
says  he.  '  Not  enough  tucker  or  grog  ?  '  I  asked.  '  Think 
I'm  a  bloomin'  fool  ?  '  says  he.  '  If  you  ask  me,  yes,'  says  I, 


THE  WAY   TO  THE  STARS  221 

'  if  you  are  goin'  to  chuck  the  job.  ...  Go  on,'  I  says  to 
him, '  what's  got  in  your  bonnet,  now — some  gell  at  Rio  ?  ' 

"  And  to  make  a  short  story  of  it,  sir,  he  tells  me  all 
about  this  dream  he's  dreamed  off  Pernambuco,  and  I 
could  do  nothing  with  him  because  the  night  he  spoke  to 
me  about  getting  another  mate,  he  said  he'd  dreamt  the 
same  thing  again.  Word  for  word— so  he  said"  Jimmy 
Barlow  accentuated,  drawing  solemnly  at  his  cigar. 

"  He  said,"  he  resumed  as  O'Hagan  made  no  sign, 
"  that  he  dreamt  we  were  down  among  icebergs,  and  that 
it  came  to  blow  a  howling  buster — pampero,  I  think  he 
called  it  ...  anyway  something  to  sneeze  over — and 
the  Casa  Blanco,  wouldn't  face  it  ...  got  her  fires 
drowned  out — water  over  the  stokehold  plates,  all  as  pat 
as  you  like  .  .  .  then  somehow,  '  as  happens  in  a  dream,' 
he  says,  we  were  somewhere  down  off  the  Patagonia  coast 
on  a  lee  shore  with  this  here  buster  blowing  us  on  top  of 
the  land. 

"  'A  long,  shelving  beach,'  it  was,  he  said.  '  Couldn't 
see  it  until  we  were  a-top  of  it.  Couldn't  have  done  any- 
thing if  we  had — 'cause  she's  broke  down  .  .  .  can't 
move,  and  there  she  drifts  an'  him  listenin'  to  a  voice  that 
said — '  Why  didn't  you  get  out  of  her  when  you  had  the 
chance  ?  Now  there  is  no  chance,'  the  voice  hummed  it  at 
him,  '  no  chance,  no  chance,  you  silly  gossoon.' 

"  And  that,"  said  Jimmy  Barlow,  "  this  Neddy  on  two 
legs  tells  me  he  can't  get  out  of  his  head.  He  was  like  a 
seal,  that  mate,  couldn't  face  a  gale  out  of  the  water  .  .  . 

"  '  Seems  to  me,'  I  says  to  him,  '  you're  Pharaoh  dished 
up  all  over  again  ;  but  if  you  think  I'm  going  to  play 
Joseph  for  you,  you  don't  know  butter  from  a  keg  of  slush. 
Take  your  hook  out  of  it,'  says  I,  '  an'  don't  go  croakin'  your 
dreams  all  over  the  Argentine  or  I'll  not  get  a  mate.' 

And "  said  Jimmy  Barlow,  then  he  paused,  took  a  pull 

at  his  cigar,  drew  the  end  red,  looked  at  it,  flicked  off  the 
ash  and  sat  with  pursed  lips. 

"  And  what  ?  "  O'Hagan  questioned. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Jimmy  Barlow,  "  I  couldn't  get  one, 
an'  so  I'm  goin'  on  without." 

O'Hagan  took  this  to  mean  that  there  was  no  necessity 
for  additional  help,  then  something  in  Barlow's  attitude 
warned  him  to  ask — • 

"  How  many  are  you  on  deck  without  this  mate  ?  " 

"  Two,"  said  Jimmy  Barlow. 


222  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Counting  yourself  ?  " 

"  Just  that,  sir." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  man,"  O'Hagan  urged,  his  calm  dis- 
turbed. "  What  is  the  use  of  doubling  your  risk  .  .  . 
isn't  it  big  enough  as  it  is  ?  " 

"As  for  that,"  came  the  answer,  then  with  a  roll  of 
importance  and  in  another  key,  Jimmy  Barlow  added — 
"  I'm  goin'  to  take  the  CasaBlanca  to  Val-i-paraiso,  where 
she  belongs.  I've  waited  a  week  lookin'  for  a  mate  and  I 
can't  get  one.  They  all  jump  at  it  till  they  see  the  boat — 
then  they  jump  out." 

"  Let  me  see  what  I  can  do,"  O'Hagan  urged.  "  I'll 
ask  my  agents — they  may  be  able  to  do  something." 

But  Jimmy  Barlow  shook  his  head.  "  Can't  stay  longer, 
sir.  My  agents  had  a  cable,  I  saw  it,  from  Val-i-paraiso  " — 
again  he  rolled  the  word — "  sayin'  they  wrould  have  to  get 
someone  to  take  over  my  job  if  I  didn't  move  along.  I've 
been  on  the  beach  already  .  .  .  you  remember  London  ? 
an' — well,  there  you  are  .  .  .  I'm  sailin'  to-night.  If  I 
didn't  sail  to-night — an'  God  knows  the  weather  hasn't 
stopped  me  since  I  came  south — I  should  get  shunted. 
Can't  do  that,"  said  Jimmy  Barlow.  "  There's  a  tidy 
cheque  due  to  me  when  I  get  her  round  .  .  .  an' — an' 
there's  the  old  gell  to  think  of — an'  the  kids  ...  er  ... 
Cap'n  O'Hagan — tell  me  honest — what  is  there  in  dreams 
.  .  .  That  sort  .  .  .  anythin'  or  nothin'  ?  " 

O'Hagan  smoked  in  silence.  He  was  scarcely  prepared 
for  the  sudden  change,  and  before  he  could  formulate  a 
reply  Jimmy  Barlow's  laugh  rang  out — 

"  You  have  a  sort  of  belief  in  'em,  sir  ...  of  course. 
An'  so  have  I " 

"Wait  a  bit.  .  .  ." 

"  Think  I  can't  see,"  Barlow  questioned  with  emphasis. 
Then  he  rose  and  stood  pointing  with  his  cigar — 

"  I  have  a  sort  of  belief  .  .  .  but  I'm  not  goin'  to  let  it 
stand  in  my  way.  I  have  a  sort  of  belief  .  .  .  but  there's 
nothin'  this  side  of  God  Almighty's  grave  that's  goin'  to 
stop  me.  .  .  .  Dreams  may  be  fizzle  an'  they  may  not — 
but  if  you  stop  to  test  'em  you'll  never  get  anywhere.  No 
sir  !  "  He  waved  his  cigar.  "  With  the  help  of  General 
Jackson  and  a  few  policemen  I'm  going  to  ferry  the  Casa 
Blanco,  what's  left  of  the  trip.  That's  what  I  drew  those 
gold  boys  to  do — an'  there  isn't  a  man  ashore  or  afloat  that 
shall  say  Henry  Tompson  started  his  new  hand  by  playing 


THE  WAY  TO   THE   STARS  223 

it  low  on  them  that  trusted  him.  ...  No  shinannikin  for 
me,  siree — not  much." 

He  marched  up  and  down  the  small  room  hammering 
out  his  points,  his  face  set  very  much  as  O'Hagan  remem- 
bered in  that  far  off  scene  at  the  Isle  of  Dogs.  There  was 
the  same  swift  and  cutting  speech,  the  same  thrilling 
attitude  of  semi-bravado — the  attitude  of  a  dog  over  a 
bone  he  has  won  in  spite  of  the  bareness  he  has  discovered. 
Barlow  had  been  on  the  beach.  He  had  seen  others  so 
situated — heard  their  snarling  excuses,  the  paltry  lies  with 
which  they  strove  to  cover  their  disgrace.  "  No  shinannikin 
for  me  !  "  It  sounded  like  a  challenge,  as  indeed  it  was, 
to  the  gods  of  wealth  and  power  who,  when  a  man's  nose 
is  on  the  grindstone,  keep  it  there  and  twist  the  handle. 
O'Hagan  fought  this  attitude. 

With  a  smile  on  his  sunburnt  face  Jimmy  Barlow 
brought  his  forces  into  action.  He  challenged  again. 
"  Is  a  man  with  the  pluck  of  a  louse  likely  to  draw  in  his 
head  because  of  dreams  ?  " 

O'Hagan  countered  this  with — "  Of  course  not ;  the 
question  is  not  one  of  dreams  but  of  going  to  sea  without 
a  mate." 

He  pleaded  for  patience,  for  consideration,  for  one  night 
longer  in  harbour  while  O'Hagan  ran  up  to  the  office  in 
B.A.,  to  see  what  could  be  done  ;  but  he  could  not  move 
Jimmy  Barlow. 

He  had  had  luck.  If  he  played  with  time  he  would 
break  his  luck  ...  he  wasn't  going  to  risk  that — no 
siree  !  "  And  those  agent  sharks  all  ready  with  a  man  to 
fork  into  the  Casa  Blanco? s  cabin  if  I  don't  get  a  move  on. 
Likely,  isn't  it  ...  and,"  reverting  again  to  the  tragedy 
foreseen  by  his  mate,  "  just  because  I  have  a  sort  of 
notion,  that  sometimes,  very  sometimes,  a  man  may  be 
able  to  read  what's  not  in  print.  .  .  ."  He  leaned  for- 
ward, earnest,  still  for  a  moment  of  time.  "  I  ask  you, 
sir  ...  what  is  there  in  it  ?  " 

"  In  dreams  ?     Nothing  to  stop  a  man,  my  friend." 
"  But  you  ask  me  to  wait  ?  " 

"  For  a  mate,  yes — not  because  of  the  man's  dreams. 
Do  you  know  what  you  are  facing — the  Straits,  thousands 
of  miles  of  open  sea- — the  worst  seas  in  the  world,  ice, 
snow — willy-waws,  and  no  harbours  worth  considera- 
tion .  .  .  ?  " 

Jipmiy  Barlow  came  back  with  a  jerk. 


224  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  I'm  goin',  sir,"  he  said  without  emphasis.  "  If  I 
stay  an'  listen  to  you  I'll  be  in  the  same  hole  as  if  I'd 
listened  to  my  mate.  J'ra  bound  to  go.  After  what 
happened  to  you  an'  me  in  the  Sphinx  there's  no  sort  of 
use  jibbin'  at  conditions.  Out  there  there's  a  job  for  me 
— if  I  stay  about  I  shall  be  given  my  walkin'  ticket  when 
I  get  there.  I  can't  afford  to  risk  that.  .  .  ." 

He  came  quite  near  O'Hagan  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"  Mrs.  O'Hagan  is  asleep,"  he  said.  "  You  say  so  long 
for  me — not  good-bye,  sir.  ...  I  never  say  that" — he 
jerked  his  head  and  drew  himself  up ;  "  it's  so  beastly 
formal,"  came  in  explanation.  Then,  as  O'Hagan  took 
his  hand  and  held  it,  he  added — "  Nothing  about  dreams 
— though  ...  or  our  short-handedness.  Women  don't 
take  to  that  sort  of  thing.  Or,  if  you  must,  tell  her  of 
that  chap — Cap'n  Something  or  other — who  came  across 
the  Atlantic  the  other  day  in  an  open  boat,  not  because 
he  had  to,  but  for  the  fun  of  the  thing — eh  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  O'Hagan  nodded  to  hearten  him.  "  Take 
it  easy,  though.  Don't  let  agents  harry  you  .  .  .  if  it  is 
bad  weather  get  in  somewhere  till  ..." 

"  Trust  me,  sir." 

"  Charts  all  right— no  stint,  eh  ?  " 

"  None." 

"  Good — and  you  won't  wait  ?  " 

"  Daren't."  Jimmy  Barlow  blundered  into  a  laugh  and 
added,  shaking  his  friend's  hand — "  You'll  see  the  wife 
an'  kids  before  I  will  .  .  .  cheer  'em  up — give  'em  chin- 
chin.  .  .  ." 

"  I  will,"  said  O'Hagan. 

"  An'  now,  as  I've  finished  my  smoke,"  Jimmy  Barlow 
threw  out,  "  I  guess  I'll  get  away — so  long,  sir.  .  .  .  For 
the  sake  of  old  days — eh  ?  " 

From  the  Strathmuir's  high  side  O'Hagan  watched  him 
walking  swiftly  to  reach  the  boats  which  lie  waiting  to 
take  men  off  to  the  ships.  The  dust  from  the  piers  and 
wharves  rolled  past  blotting  him  out.  The  steam  from 
Great  Southern  engines  labouring  with  giant  loads  from 
Bahia  Blanca  enveloped  him — and  when  at  last  the  pier 
became  visible  Jimmy  Barlow's  slim  form  was  no  longer 
there. 

Like  a  traveller  emerging  upon  a  plain  he  had  come  for 
a  few  hours  into  the  lives  of  those  who  had  followed  him  ; 
then  the  simoom  had  passed  over  him  and  he  was  gone. 


THE  WAY  TO  THE  STARS  225 

For  long  O'Hagan  stood  looking  out  upon  that  scene 
which  had  swallowed  him,  listening  to  his  phrases,  one  so 
often  repeated — "  No  shinannikin  for  me — if  you  please. 
No,  siree  !  "  and  again — "  You'll  see  the  wife  and  kids 
before  I  will.  Cheer  'em  up." 

Pace  tud,  oh  friend ! — was  that,  too,  prophetic  ? 


B.F. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    CLOSING   OF   GATES 

IN  a  general  way  the  record  of  a  Bottle-filler's  im- 
pressions of  a  stay  in  a  foreign  port  would  go  to  prove 
that  he  had  seen  nothing  of  it. 

In  the  main  it  would  be  a  tale  of  unending  noise  and 
dust  and  work ;  of  the  clatter  of  winches  and  the  jar 
of  cargo  going  out  and  coming  in ;  of  a  strange  jargon 
spoken  by  weird  "  lumpers,"  sans-culottes,  shock-headed 
and  vociferant.  It  would  be  a  tale  of  work  which  goes 
on  by  day  and  by  night,  Sundays,  all  days,  without  extra 
pay — for  an  officer.  And  it  would  be  the  same,  sand- 
wiched with  "  visits  to  my  agents,"  drinks  accepted, 
drinks  refused,  drinks  paid  for,  together  with  dusty  rides 
and  walks  in  streets  which  blaze — for  a  captain. 

A  dull  story.  The  story  of  drab  surroundings,  place 
them  in  what  seaport  you  will,  of  work  which  is  mechanical 
and  deadening  to  the  senses  ;  work  which  is  monotonous, 
done  by  men  from  whom  all  snap  and  originality  have 
been  drilled  in  the  steady  strides  of  speed  and  economy. 

Sailors  are  people  who  scrub  paintwork  and  chip  iron 
rust.  Officers  are  tally  clerks  answerable  for  weights 
they  have  not  tested.  Apprentices  are  boys  getting  an 
insight  into  violence,  debauchery  and  the  primitive 
passions  of  a  race  of  sailors  no  longer  even  speaking  their 
tongue.  Cargoes  are  whirled  in  or  out  in  a  handful  of 
hours,  sucked  out  by  vast  machines  in  a  smother  of  dust ; 
tipped  in  from  trucks  seized  in  the  jaws  of  monstrous  lifts 
and  showered  from  on  high  with  the  jar  and  rattle  of 
platoon  firing.  The  noise  comes  as  from  heaven,  the 
tramp  shivers  as  she  receives  it  and  the  men  who  tend  her 
wait  for  the  moment  when  "  leave  "  permits  them  to  kill 
thought  at  the  casino,  the  cafe  chantant  and  kindred 
saturnalia  provided  for  their  undoing. 

Sometimes  it  is  merely  a  night  of  five  or  six  hours,  and 
it  is  spent  in  the  whirl  to  which  the  soul-deadened  drift. 

Here  touts  abound — evil  of  speech,   eviJ   of  design, 


THE  CLOSING  OF  GATES  227 

together  with  the  vendors  of  obscenity.  They  will  lure 
you  to  haunts  where  women  will  take  care  of  you,  drug 
you,  strip  you  and  thrust  you  forth  in  a  paper  shirt. 
Women  of  all  races  are  there  to  choose  from  ;  women 
who  dance  and  sing  and  sprawl — drinking  to  keep  the 
devil  alive  in  them,  thought  and  memory  buried.  The 
greater  the  seaport,  the  more  civilised  the  community, 
the  more  costly  are  these  flashes  from  the  souls  of  the  lost 
to  the  souls  of  the  snared.  That  at  once  is  the  reason  why 
men  and  boys  who  march  with  the  forgotten,  hide  it  from 
their  mothers — their  brothers,  even  though  they  die  in  the 
hiding. 

There  exist  elsewhere,  of  course,  for  the  Bottle-fillers, 
other  modes  of  recreation.  They  squat  at  the  edge  of 
streets  which  respectability  shuns, — somewhere  near 
"  Sailor-town,"  or  "  China-town  "  or  "  Nigger-town," 
which  are  all  under  various  designations  comfortably  near 
the  edge  of  the  pit.  Here  a  meeting-house  is  set  up.  It 
is  generally  known  as  a  "  Bethel,"  or  a  "  Mission,"  and 
it  has  been  built  to  draw  men  from  contact  with  the 
devil  by  drumming  into  their  ears  the  dreary  and  monoto- 
nous alternative  of  "  worship." 

This  of  itself  is  a  singular  remedy.  A  bell  tinkles  at 
certain  hours  and  those  who  answer  its  summons  proceed 
dismally  to  howl  and  pray.  All  the  talk  provided  is  of 
roaring  lions,  never  of  sunshine  and  the  fields.  These 
places  exhibit  on  their  walls  in  the  vividest  colouring  the 
uncomfortable  descent  of  all  thirsty  Bottle-fillers  into 
Hades.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  smoke  about  that  part 
of  the  picture  and  it  appears  that  the  man  is  in  danger 
from  two  sources,  always  painted  with  snakish  malignity 
— drink  and  women.  And,  if  those  who  administer  this 
soul-stirring  succeed  in  capturing  a  Bottle-filler  tired  with 
the  roar  and  dust  of  a  day's  work,  they  stuff  his  pockets 
with  tracts  printed  in  letters  so  large  that  a  blind  man 
might  feel  them. 

The  distribution  of  a  certain  number  of  bales  of  this 
kind  of  stupidity  seems  to  be  the  raison  d'etre  of  a  Bethel, 
or  mission,  or  any  of  those  worn  traps  known  as  meeting- 
houses which  shout  aloud — 

"  ALL  SAILORS  ARE  WELCOME. 
COME  EARLY. 
COME  OFTEN." 

Q2 


228  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

Seaports  all  the  world  over  have  these  satiric  out- 
pourings blazoned  on  the  gates  or  windows  of  the  trap 
provided.  Sometimes  the  trap  is  sandwiched  between 
gin  palaces — as  in  Merrie  England  ;  sometimes  it  sits 
in  a  dismal  cul-de-sac  of  the  docks  as  a  hulk  joined  to  the 
wharf  by  a  gangway  up  which  the  Bottle-filler  may  trudge 
feeling  at  home.  Sometimes  it  is  far  away  from  every 
other  note  of  civilisation — planted  down  firmly  in  the 
city's  gutters,  like  a  coffee  stall,  where  it  is  noisy  and 
dirty  and  foul. 

There  is  no  alternative  for  the  Bottle-filler,  a  work- 
sodden  stranger,  but  to  go  to  the  haunts  of  vice  or  the 
haunts  of  prayer — and,  on  the  whole  the  whirl  of  vice  is 
more  alluring.  Dismal  is  his  day  on  board.  Dismal  the 
hole  in  which  he  lives.  Dismal  his  journey  towards  the 
grave  most  sailors  fill.  He  requires  an  antidote  to  misery, 
not  groans  of  supplication.  He  has  seen  God's  hand  on 
the  sea,  in  the  heavens  that  stoop  over  him,  in  the  myriad 
wonders  of  the  deep,  and  he  fails  to  recognise  Him  within 
tin  barns.  For  that  reason  if  for  no  other  he  kills  time  in 
the  Halls. 

Buenos  Ayres  has  gems  of  this  sort;  so,  too,  have 
London  and  Liverpool  and  Marseilles  and  Lisbon  and 
Naples — east,  west,  north,  south ;  wherever,  in  point  of 
fact,  there  exists  a  town  of  singular  wealth  and  prosperity 
where  ships  may  come  to  bask  and  sweat  through  stifling 
days  and  nights  of  no-rest,  there  exists  a  Hall  for  the 
Bottle-fillers. 

Each  in  its  peculiar  and  characteristic  fashion,  you  may 
depend.  Blazoned  here.  Discreet  there.  Spangles  and 
tights  here.  Prunes  and  prisms  there. 

Nevertheless  they  are  one.  One  in  aim,  one  in  action 
— to  strip  the  Bottle-filler,  to  relieve  him  of  his  so-easily 
acquired  gold,  and  so  to  fill  the  pockets,  swell  the  banking 
accounts  and  make  life  easy  for  the  parasite  who  sits  in 
receipt  of  Custom. 

That  is  the  aim. 

If  the  men  and  apprentices  and  officers  of  the  Strath- 
muir  had  opportunities  to  examine  either  the  Halls  or  the 
Traps,  it  is  beyond  question  that  O'Hagan  had  none. 

He  was  in  a  difficult  position — one  of  a  dwindling  band 
in  a  seaport  filled  by  tramps.  Winchester  had  left  its 
mark  on  him  precisely  as  Eton  or  Harrow  leave  theirs  on 


THE  CLOSING  OF  GATES  229 

the  men  who  pass  through  them.  He  was  an  aristocrat 
in  manner  without  any  of  the  appurtenances  of  his  kind. 
Master  of  a  Tramp.  One  of  a  round  score  who  met  daily 
at  the  agents'.  He  was  one  of  a  type  indeed  which  for 
many  a  year  slowly  has  been  elbowed  from  the  British 
Merchant  Service,  but  the  junior  partner  at  his  agency 
very  soon  recognised  his  man.  As  Stephen  Hammond 
had  discovered  him,  so  young  Ridesdale  found  no  difficulty 
either  in  exposing  him  or  raking  him  with  questions.  It 
all  came  out  in  the  swift,  modern  way — 

"  I  seem  to  know  your  name.  .  .  .  Public  school  man, 
aren't  you  ?  " 

:t  Yes.     Winchester." 

"  Thought  so.  What  year  ?  .  .  .  I  was  there  myself 
till  they  chucked  me  out  here." 

Further  scraps  produced  evidence  on  which  there  could 
be  no  question.  The  firm  had  unearthed  a  gentleman,  as 
the  phrase  goes,  in  the  shape  of  a  skipper  consigned  to 
their  care,  a  man  whose  wife  also  was  a  lady.  In  face 
of  credentials  so  pleasing  and  manners  so  charming,  it 
became  necessary  to  show  this  couple  some  hospitality. 
Mrs.  O'Hagan  at  all  events  must  be  persuaded  to  come 
away  from  the  ship,  bring  the  prodigy  with  her  and  pay 
us  a  visit.  The  world  is  full  of  undreamed-of  kindliness, 
and  here  "  Us,"  as  may  be  gathered,  was  young  Mrs. 
Ridesdale,  who  had  followed  the  fortunes  of  her  husband 
when  he  had  been  chucked  to  the  Argentine.  She  "  rather 
liked  "  the  look  of  Lucy  and  wanted  to  talk  to  someone 
who  had  no  twang.  This  happened  after  a  testing 
expedition  amidst  the  shops  and  restaurants  of  the  city. 

There  followed  a  migration  for  Lucy  to  B.A.'s  wealthiest 
suburb.  The  ship  and  ship  life  vanished  as  under  the 
wand  of  a  magician.  The  gap  between  captain  and 
agent  was  crossed,  bridged  by  Winchester  and  mutual 
associations.  As  in  Glasgow  in  the  early  days  of  O'Hagan's 
new  and  amazing  fortune,  so  in  the  Argentine,  where  he 
worked  with  an  increasing  sense  of  freedom. 

The  nightmare  trial  had  lost  its  power  to  sting,  the 
allegations  of  insobriety  fell  away.  He  was  awake  again, 
alive,  the  partner  of  a  woman  of  his  own  standing  who  had 
always  believed  in  him,  worked  for  him  and  had  that  high- 
bred air  which  is  at  once  recognised  by  those  who  have 
enjoyed  similar  advantages.  While  O'Hagan  walked 
with  head  erect  attending  to  his  business,  Lucy  saw  the 


230  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

splendid  streets  and  shops  of  this  "  Paris "  of  South 
America.  O'Hagan  lunched  and  dined  at  hotels  where 
prices  were  extortionate,  but  on  a  par  with  the  enormous 
salaries  of  the  men  who  were  their  patrons.  They  rode, 
drove,  visited  the  pampas  and  theatres,  listened  to  opera 
and  talked  of  poor  Jimmy  Barlow  who  was  pushing  his 
way  towards  emancipation  on  the  Chilean  coast.  They 
questioned,  could  he  win  through  ? 

Then  from  Bahia  Blanca  came  word  of  a  pampero 
which  swept  the  seas  to  the  south  of  the  Plate  ;  but  pro- 
duced no  evidence  of  the  little  Casa  Blanca. 

O'Hagan  was  on  tenterhooks  when  the  news  was  spread. 
Bahia  Blanca,  it  appeared,  was  devastated,  crops  ruined, 
the  great  Southern  Railway  damaged  by  floods,  estancias 
laid  waste,  cattle  drowned  ;  but  of  Jimmy  Barlow  there 
came  no  sound.  Nor  had  the  ports  of  which  inquiry  was 
made  seen  anything  of  him. 

In  the  agents'  offices  in  B.A.  O'Hagan  and  young 
Ridesdale  pored  over  charts  which  pourtrayed  that 
lonely  sea  and  coast  which  stretches  from  Bahia  Blanca 
south,  to  Cape  Virgins  in  the  Magellan.  Jimmy  Barlow 
had  been  away  on  his  long  stretch  to  the  south  for  nine 
days.  The  pampero  of  which  his  mate  had  dreamed  had 
come  and  gone.  How  far  south  it  had  raged  one  could  not 
say ;  but  beyond  Bahia  Blanca  and  the  Rio  Negro  there 
is  little  opportunity  for  shelter  until  the  Magellan  is  reached. 
And  there,  one  has  arrived  in  the  district  given  over  to 
willy-waws,  gales  accompanied  by  snows  against  which 
the  Casa  Blanca  could  not  steam. 

O'Hagan  decided  in  his  mind  that  Jimmy  Barlow  had 
reached  a  point  somewhere  between  Cape  Tres  Puntas  and 
the  Virgins,  that  he  should  have  been  outside  the  range  of 
this  disturbance,  as  it  is  labelled — but  was  he  ? 

Down  there  you  are  approaching  Antarctica  and  the 
world  is  a  table  land,  blank,  dreary,  vast.  Harbours, 
towns,  aid — as  we  understand  it  with  our  lifeboats, 
coastguards  and  rocket  apparatus — do  not  exist.  Man 
is  face  to  face  with  Nature — with  the  sea,  with  ice,  gales  and 
a  race  of  savages  none  too  friendly.  Had  Jimmy  Barlow 
and  his  cockle-shell  destined  for  Valparaiso  escaped  these 
perils  ?  Was  he  secure  once  again  as  after  Vigo  and  Agadir, 
resting  on  his  oars  in  spite  of  dreams,  in  spite  of  the  bluff 
audacity  of  his  exit  shorthanded  from  Buenos  Ayres  ? 
O'Hagan  could  not  say.  He  had  a  conviction  to  which 


THE  CLOSING  OF  GATES  231 

time  alone  could  give  the  lie.  He  knew  that  it  was  as 
easy  to  assert  how  they  met  their  end  who  were  put  away 
in  the  dungeons  of  the  Inquisition  as  to  state  how  it  was 
with  a  ship  which  has  passed  from  the  ken  of  telegraphy. 
Besides,  O'Hagan  was  busy  brightening  his  own  escut- 
cheon and  exceedingly  alive  to  the  necessities  of  despatch. 
It  seems  that  cargo  had  no  sooner  commenced  to  tumble 
out  than  he  itched  to  be  away  in  a  twinkling.  He  had 
spent  a  fortnight  waiting.  He  had  enjoyed  every  hour 
of  it — but  these  were  times  of  the  great  boom.  Ships 
moved  on  a  circle  as  though  chained.  Coal  or  general 
merchandise  six  thousand  miles  to  the  Plate,  water  ballast 
rather  farther  to  some  Gulf  port,  then  home — perhaps 
twenty  thousand  miles. 

In  half  a  dozen  words  it  had  been  ordered  by  cable, 
the  Strathmuir  taken  by  the  nose,  skipper,  crew,  engines — 
the  altogether,  in  point  of  fact — set  throbbing  for  U.S.A. 
How  light  she  was  to  be,  how  much  coal  would  be  necessary 
to  get  her  there,  how  she  would  act  in  this  new  trim  were 
matters  arranged  by  O'Hagan's  agents.  As  captain  he 
put  his  name  to  the  foot  of  many  papers  and  became 
responsible  for  vast  sums  which  he  had  not  tested  ;  for 
weights  which  perhaps  were  correct  and  which  he  could  not 
check.  That  is  the  system  by  which  an  agency  lives.  It 
seems  to  pay. 

The  Strathmuir,  too,  was  a  pantechnicon  of  wonderful 
capacity  ;  but  she  echoed  like  a  bin.  She  was  to  be  empty. 
Her  crew  on  the  voyage  to  U.S.A.  would  have  her  cavernous 
spaces  to  clean  and  chip  and  polish.  Meanwhile  there  was 
coal  to  put  away,  derricks  to  house,  gins  and  ropes  to  put 
out  of  sight.  No  room  for  speculation  on  Jimmy  Barlow 
here.  Jimmy  Barlow  must  paddle  his  own  canoe,  get 
out  or  get  under  in  the  modern  senseless  fashion.  The 
Casa  Blanca  was  attempting  under  the  guidance  of  a 
skilled  Bottle-filler  to  carry  out  the  final  requisition  of  her 
contract,  in  order  that  certain  defined  sums  should  pass 
from  the  account  of  the  owners  to  those  who  built  her. 
Whether  she  was  fit  to  undertake  this  journey  or  unfit 
is  beside  the  point.  She  was  on  her  way.  Her  builders 
and  her  owners  were  secure  against  loss,  but  Jimmy  Barlow 
in  his  capacity  as  Bottle-filler  was  unsecured.  So  too 
were  "  his  wife  and  kids,"  his  engineers  and  the  "  hands  " 
who  accompanied  him. 
Whether  a  contract  of  that  kind  is  moral  or  immoral 


282  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

is  a  question  on  which  much  ink  may  be  spilled  ;  that  it 
has  not  the  soul  of  a  tin  can  is  evident  at  the  outset.  But 
the  question  of  Jimmy  Barlow  was  shouldered  out  by  the 
rush  of  activity  which  fell  upon  O'Hagan.  Advice  came 
to  him  restrained  and  definite  from  his  agents  up  town. 
Orders  which  would  have  made  old-time  Bottle-fillers 
froth  at  the  mouth. 

Get  her  along — that  was  the  essence  of  them.  Take  what 
is  given  you,  and  clear  out — that  usually  at  the  back  of 
them.  Orders  of  all  sorts  came  down  to  the  wharf  by 
telephone.  Questions  arrived  in  the  same  way.  Was 
Captain  O'Hagan  there  ?  He  was.  Very  well,  sir ;  fifteen 
cases  of  pickles  and  forty-nine  cases  of  Bass  are  found 
ullaged  in  store — what  is  the  explanation  ? 

From  the  ship's  point  of  view  there  can,  of  course,  be 
but  one — it  has  happened  since  landing.  The  consignees 
dispute  this.  They  say  it  happened  on  board.  The 
wharf  people,  being  of  the  same  kidney,  back  the  con- 
signees, remembering,  of  course,  the  approach  of  a  certain 
festival.  The  nearer  the  festival  the  louder  they  become 
in  upholding  the  integrity  of  the  wharf  ;  and  it  all  becomes 
very  twisted,  very  serious  for  the  officer  of  the  hold,  a 
matter  of  principle  for  the  ship  and  her  crew. 

If  by  any  possibility  the  act  of  God  can  be  impaled, 
then  sworn  testimony  is  forthcoming.  If  the  ullaging 
is  obviously  due,  as  it  usually  is,  to  pilferers  with  levers 
and  the  wherewithal  to  draw  corks,  then  the  matter  must 
be  settled  by  arbitration  which  raps  the  ship's  knuckles, 
or  the  courts  which  sit  on  them  and  take  no  heed  of  an 
owner's  squeals.  He,  poor  man,  is  a  long  way  off- — and 
swollen  by  prosperity.  Therefore  squeeze. 

But  a  captain  is  kept  very  busy.  O'Hagan  earned 
every  penny  of  his  twenty-five  pounds  a  month.  So,  too, 
did  the  skipper  of  a  gaunt  collier  who  lay  next  astern  of 
the  Strathmuir  .  .  .  but  in  his  case  it  happened  to  be 
twelve-pounds-a-month-and-no-back-talk-or-out-you-go. 

A  further  industry  was  provided  for  O'Hagan  just  as 
other  matters  were  getting  wound  up.  They  were  within 
half  a  dozen  hours  of  sailing.  Lucy  had  returned  to  her 
home,  and  some  of  the  derricks  were  already  in  crutches, 
when  the  mate  reported  the  loss  of  two  A.B.'s  and  one  of 
the  apprentices. 

Of  course  it  was  open  to  O'Hagan  to  put  the  matter 
into  the  hands  of  the  Argentine  police  and  sit  down  to 


THE  CLOSING  OF  GATES  233 

await  the  runaways'  capture  ;  or  he  might  have  seen  His 
Britannic  Majesty's  Consul,  or  his  own  agents  ;  but  he 
did  none  of  these  things.  He  said  to  the  mate  instead — 

'  Anything  due  to  them  ?  " 

'  A  few  dollars  perhaps." 

'  Taken  their  gear  ?  " 

'  Every  rag." 

'  Well — I'm  sailing  at  three  o'clock — four  at  the  latest. 
Get  someone  to  fill  the  gaps." 

Then  the  mate  went  away  and  talked  with  a  boarding- 
house  master  who  had  the  runaways  safely  at  home  ; 
bargained  for  "  two  Johns  "  and  one  "  chico  John,"  and 
the  boarding-house  master  produced  in  a  twinkling  three 
persons  sufficiently  drunk  to  be  willing  at  a  moment's 
notice  to  fill  the  gaps. 

Therefore  it  became  possible  for  the  S.S.  Strathmuir  to 
sail  for  the  Gulf  with  her  full  complement  as  attested. 
To  sail  in  the  ordinary  way,  after  handing  certain  dollars 
and  cents  to  the  boarding-house  master,  and  putting  to  bed 
in  the  ordinary  manner  her  drunken  sea-boys.  To  sail 
in  spite  of  a  light  leadline,  which  during  the  latter  stages 
of  the  trip  obviously  crippled  her,  made  O'Hagan 
uneasy  and  Lucy  scared. 

A  ship  may  be  too  light  as  well  as  too  deep  ;  and,  as 
though  it  had  become  necessary  to  apologise  for  her 
immersion  on  the  outward  trip,  Authority,  now  she  was  on 
the  home  stretch,  had  decided  to  ignore  her.  Too  light  ? 
What  the  devil  does  it  matter  ?  Get  her  along — those 
are  the  orders  issued  to  the  Bottle-fillers. 

Through  gales  she  came  triumphant,  into  the  swelter 
of  seas  and  islands  so  beautiful,  so  kind,  so  full  of  interest, 
that  interest  in  her  capers  seemed  to  pass  as  by  magic. 
A  gale  on  the  side  of  a  bladder  in  water-ballast  would  have 
tested  the  Strathmuir  very  effectually  here  ;  but  the  Gulf 
was  kind,  hot  air  trickled  about  her,  hot  puffs  of  wind 
perfumed  and  wonderful  from  those  islands  she  passed. 
A  gale  would  have  kept  O'Hagan  busy  trying  to  keep  the 
Strathmuir' s  head  on  to  it,  or  tail  on  to  it — and,  like  an 
airship,  like  a  balloon  he  would  have  twisted,  teetotumed 
and  careened  before  it. 

A  month,  spent  mainly  in  the  tropics,  latterly  with  new 
interests  arising  hour  by  hour,  then  the  Strathmuir  crept 
into  the  Texan  cotton  port,  Galveston,  and  asked  for 
advice.  It  came  as  before,  a  whistling  chorus  on  tele- 


234  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

phones  ordering  her  alongside,  "  to  move,"  to  "  start  in 
right  away,"  as  agents  were  prepared  to  make  things  hum. 

Lucy  O'Hagan  scarcely  saw  the  great  U.S.A.  It  was 
a  continent  of  vast  interest  to  her,  peopled  by  men  and 
women  of  her  own  and  her  husband's  blood  ;  but  it 
remained  a  sealed  book  after  thirteen  thousand  miles  of 
voyaging.  She  saw  a  gleam  of  Galveston  on  one  wonderful 
day  when  Den  had  an  hour  to  spare,  took  lunch  at  an 
American  restaurant,  caught  sight  of  America's  trains,  the 
hooded  monsters  which  draw  them,  saw  the  niggers  and 
heard  their  song,  and  that  is  all. 

The  skipper  of  a  Dutch  eel  boat  lying  off  Thames  Haven 
sees  as  much  of  our  London  as  the  captain  of  a  tramp  sees 
of  the  city  which  finds  him  cargo. 

So — fighting  flies  and  heat  and  mosquitoes  which  never 
grew  tired  of  them,  they  spent  twelve  days  and  nights 
listening  to  the  thud  of  the  bales  which  keep  Lancashire 
spinners  opulent  and  brokers  on  tenterhooks.  They 
gladly  faced  the  sea  in  exchange,  even  though  Key  West 
provided  a  fog  for  them  and  when  abreast  of  New  York 
there  came  a  norther  to  paint  their  gallant  homestead 
white.  The  sea  rose  here  as  is  its  genial  fashion  under  the 
lashing  of  a  gale  ;  it  threw  white  crests  high  over  the 
plunging  Strathmuir,  tossed  it  with  fine  prodigality  and 
left  it  there  for  the  bitter  wind  to  freeze  and  make  beautiful. 

Ten  days  of  varying  fortune  succeeded  that  dressing  ;  a 
little  fog,  some  tired  airs,  a  gale  of  moderate  violence  then 
the  Strathmuir  trailed  her  ponderous  bulk,  her  sturdy 
funnel  and  short  masts  into  dock  at  Liverpool.  Five  days 
banging  ensued,  Lucy  got  herself  away  from  the  din  of  it, 
took  rooms  high  up  in  Huskisson  Street  and  rejoined  on 
the  night  which  saw  them  thrust  forth  in  the  old  style  to 
chance  what  came  in  Channel. 

Get  a  move  on.  The  days  are  boom  days.  The  Pampas 
Line  is  stacked  with  demands  for  cargo  space  !  Out  with 
you,  to  London,  and  take  up  the  round  which  is  yours. 

A  prosperous  voyage  at  an  end — but  no  word  from 
McClure.  Not  even  a  message  of  welcome.  O'Hagan 
had  done  what  any  other  stupidity  could  do — that  is  all. 
He  had  done  what  any  other  British  shipmaster  could  do 
not  by  rule  of  thumb,  but  by  the  classic  art  of  navigation 
which  produces  by  safe  methods  what  rule  of  thumb  pro- 
duces at  random. 


THE  CLOSING  OF  GATES  235 

Lucy  saw  but  little  of  her  husband  on  this  trip.  Again 
the  ship  was  in  ballast,  uncomfortably  bladder-like  and 
flourishing  a  screw  on  the  slightest  inducement.  It  was 
December  in  British  seas,  dark,  gloomy,  taciturn.  Some- 
times fog  accompanied  them,  sometimes  drizzling  rain. 
Sometimes  the  Strathmuir  lolled  along  before  a  following 
breeze,  sometimes  danced  at  a  flick  of  temper.  But  she 
strolled  presently  to  the  foot  of  the  Reach  which  flows  past 
Riverton. 

She  howled  dismally  as  she  moved.  It  was  thick  and  a 
pilot  marched  the  bridge  with  O'Hagan,  giving  scraps  of 
news.  The  strikes  he  denounced  as  stupid  ;  the  Govern- 
ment's latest  he  described  as  imbecile  ;  the  green  winter 
appalling — but  he  looked  jolly  and  prosperous.  Perhaps 
he  was  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Portland  Lodge  .  .  .  but  he  knew 
without  word  from  any  soul  on  board  that  O'Hagan  was 
the  man  who  had  been  broken  for  the  loss  of  the  Sphinx, 
had  heard  the  whispers  about  insobriety,  knew  of  his 
residence  in  that  charming  old  Chatter  Town  and  of  his 
straits.  Puerile.  O'Hagan  marked  time  as  he  heard. 

Lucy  saw  with  a  thrill  of  delight  the  old  red  roofs  through 
the  mist,  and  held  the  prodigy  high  so  that  he  might  nod  and 
blink  and  coo  his  appreciation.  But  Denis  saw  it  with  a 
touch  of  the  old  misgiving,  perhaps  because  it  was  a  grey 
day,  perhaps  because  he  had  pierced  the  pilot's  defences. 
A  white  haze  hid  the  hills  up  there  where  stood  The 
Deodars  and  all  their  household  gods.  Fog  lay  on  the 
river — the  thin,  dank  fog  of  the  estuary  which  in  part  is 
smoke  and  in  part  moisture  wrung  from  the  marshes. 
Over  there  clucked  the  docks  which  had  marked  his 
anguish ;  the  mailships  which  he  had  scarcely  dared  to 
board,  the  tin-pot  canteen  from  which  he  had  made  his 
exit  only  to  hear  Worsdale's  advice — "  If  it  is  necessary 
to  eat  or  drink  when  you  are  at  the  docks,  carry  a  sandwich 
and  a  flask  of  cold  tea.  Let  people  see  that  it  is  tea." 

Damnable  !  And  yet  how  often  he  had  crossed  that 
narrow  stretch  between  his  home  and  the  farther  shipping. 
With  what  hope  he  had  come  down  to  Riverton  and  shown 
Lucy  the  home  which  he  had  picked  out ;  how  he  had 
hung  on  her  decision  .  .  .  and  then,  well,  had  not  River- 
ton  also  seen  him  nearly  at  the  end  of  his  tether  ;  a  strong 
man  beaten  by  a  sentence  which  the  world  translates  into 
incompetence  at  the  very  least. 

It  was  a  dank  day.     The  ship  moved  very  slowly  past 


286  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

those  red  roofs  and  climbing  streets.  There  was  ample 
opportunity  while  watching  the  pilot  to  fly  kites  and  check 
results.  The  air  was  soft,  muggy,  humid  to  the  point  of 
saturation — and  O'Hagan  was  a  Celt,  with  all  the  yearning 
vision  of  his  race,  the  power  of  living  in  the  past,  the  power, 
too,  of  seeing  what  is  to  come.  He  had  a  sensation  as  the 
ship  dragged  slowly  through  the  haze,  of  catastrophe 
which  he  could  not  quite  explain.  It  belonged  to  the 
moment.  Perhaps  it  was  the  weather,  perhaps  the  sight 
of  his  old  home.  He  could  not  say  what  it  was. 

Then  came  a  quickening.  A  new  pilot  had  arrived. 
One  apparently  who  lived  at  Erith,  or  Woolwich,  or  the 
Isle  of  Dogs  and  knew  no  gossip  of  tweaking  Riverton. 
Yet  he  knew  of  O'Hagan's  trial  and  covertly  congratulated 
him  on  his  victory.  O'Hagan  took  this  without  challenge 
— but  it  stung.  As  far  as  he  could  see  they  all  knew  and 
pitied  him.  He  did  not  require  their  pity.  He  required 
obedience,  care,  seamanship  of  his  pilots  ;  especially  of 
this  newcomer  who  was  to  take  them  along  the  last  lap  of 
their  journey.  If  this  glib  personage,  or  either  of  his 
confreres,  happened  to  put  the  Strathmuir  ashore  or  did 
any  sort  of  damage  while  in  charge,  O'Hagan,  by  the  merci- 
ful decree  of  Authority,  would  be  liable.  That,  too,  is  one 
of  the  advantages  of  being  a  Bottle-filler. 

Very  naturally,  then,  O'Hagan  scanned  him  for  signs 
other  than  those  which  usually  appear  with  loquacity. 
With  twenty  skippers  the  pilot's  compliment  would  have 
been  accepted  as  the  mark  of  a  discriminating  mind  ;  but 
at  once  O'Hagan  stood  on  stilts.  He  had  won  no  victory. 
By  the  skin  of  his  teeth  he  had  been  able  during  the  past 
five  months — perhaps  six — to  hold  his  own.  He  had 
earned  his  living,  he  had  provided  a  small  interlude  for 
Lucy  ;  but  the  torture  he  had  endured  while  winning 
what  he  had  won  would  have  left  the  pilot  cold  ! 

It  is  all  a  question  of  temperament,  of  education,  and 
O'Hagan  was  beginning  to  discover  that  to  be  sensitive 
at  sea  is  a  blunder. 

He  watched  the  pilot,  a  bird-like  person  who  stood  with 
a  high-shouldered  shrug,  at  the  wing  of  the  bridge.  A 
ticklish  piece  of  navigation  lay  before  them.  A  ship  is 
always  in  greater  danger  in  narrow  waters  than  in  wide  ; 
but  the  pilot  seemed  competent.  He  appeared  to  be 
endowed  with  second  sight.  He  said  he  could  smell  a 
buoy  as  well  as  some  folk  smell  drains.  He  certainly  found 


THE  CLOSING  OF  GATES  237 

them  and  passed  them  with  an  immense  and  overweening 
assurance  which  at  length  brought  the  Strathmuir  to  the 
dock  gates.  Then,  very  precise  and  neat  he  came  down 
from  the  bridge,  rubbing  hands  and  ready  to  get  his  note 
signed. 

The  voyage  was  at  an  end. 

In  an  hour  the  ship  would  be  tied  up,  ready  to  take  in 
cargo  and  recommence  her  comet-like  activities.  Angus 
was  as  nervous  as  a  kitten  because  he,  alone  of  all  on 
board,  would  be  called  upon  to  explain  the  coal  consump- 
tion, which  he  asserted  was  away  and  above  all  possible 
estimates ;  but  O'Hagan  laughed  at  him.  He  knew 
Angus  quite  as  well  as  he  was  likely  to  know  himself. 
It  is  your  spendthrifts  who  are  careless  when  the  reckoning 
comes  to  be  made  ;  not  the  man  who  nurses  his  fires. 

Now  that  they  were  in  dock  the  weight  seemed  to  have 
vanished  from  O'Hagan's  mind.  Quite  simply  this  had 
come  about.  People  recognised  him,  someone  from  the 
office  appeared  with  a  bundle  of  papers,  and  a  fine  show 
of  congratulation  ensued.  So,  for  a  period,  O'Hagan's 
burden  was  pushed  aside  while  he  stood  in  contemplation 
of  his  achievements.  What  had  he  done  ?  Nothing, 
plainly,  very  wonderful ;  nothing  heroic,  nothing  in  any 
way  to  lift  the  smudge  from  his  papers — but,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  had  made  an  exceedingly  prosperous  round 
voyage. 

He  had  quick  despatch,  thumping  freights,  small  dis- 
bursements, and  no  damage  to  report.  With  the  exception 
of  that  one  man  who  had  been  pulverised,  no  trouble  of 
any  sort  had  befallen  the  ship. 

They  had  been  away  nearly  five  months,  during  which 
period  the  Pampas  Line  had  made  a  clear  five  thousand  ; 
O'Hagan  had  earned  rather  less  than  one  hundred  and 
twenty,  and  the  second  mate  forty.  .  .  . 

Even  his  bitterest  enemy  could  not  accuse  McClure, 
the  head  of  the  Pampas  Line,  of  paying  what  his  share- 
holders in  moments  of  depression  termed  "  profligate 
salaries." 

Amidst  congratulations  from  those  who  desired  some- 
thing at  his  hands,  and  words  of  welcome  from  others,  a 
clerk  from  the  office  of  the  Pampas  Line  handed  Captain 
O'Hagan  a  note.  It  was  from  McClure,  who  wrote  to  say 
he  would  be  glad  if  Captain  O'Hagan  would  make  it 


238  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

convenient  to  call  at  the  office  at  eleven  o'clock  to- 
morrow, "  as  he  found  it  necessary  to  see  him." 

Of  course  there  was  no  possible  necessity  for  that 
final  touch.  It  was  obvious  McClure  would  desire  to  see 
the  commander  of  the  Straihmuir.  As  manager  of  the 
line  he  could  insist  on  seeing  him,  as  no  doubt  the  world 
knows. 

O'Hagan  gritted  over  the  phrase.  He  told  Lucy  that 
something  was  in  the  wind.  He  went  farther  and  assured 
her  that  he  knew  it  directly  they  entered  the  river — 
although  in  no  sense  could  he  have  explained  more. 

Lucy  had  come  upon  him  in  the  chart-room  after  the 
prodigy  had  been  put  to  bed,  and  had  learned  the  meaning 
•  of  his  absent  demeanour,  of  his  irritability  after  the  deli- 
very of  the  letter. 

"  There's  something  in  the  wind,"  he  asserted  again. 
"  I  went  as  far  as  I  could  with  an  understrapper  ;  but  he 
knew  nothing.  He  only  knew  he  might  not  say  .  .  . 
I  thought  at  first  there  might  be  a  claim  from  someone 
for  that  poor  devil  who  got  washed  away ;  but  I  need 
not  have  worried ;  the  directors  of  the  Pampas  Line 
know  how  to  deal  with  incidents  of  that  kind.  ..." 

"  Den  !  " 

She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck ;  but  they  failed  to 
soothe  him,  he  raged  on,  his  tone  for  the  moment  bitter. 

"  I  have  done  rather  well  for  them.  They  will  clear  a 
little  fortune  out  of  this  five  months'  work.  There  isn't 
a  ship  of  our  tonnage  in  the  London  docks  that  will  show 
better  results  than  those  I  shall  hand  in — and  in  spite  of 
it  .  .  ." 

"  Den  !     Please,  please  don't  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  ?  Why  not  ? "  His  arm  went  round  her, 
notwithstanding  the  hot  return.  He  added,  as  though 
ashamed,  "  But  it  is  true,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  What  is  true,  Den  ;  you  have  told  me  nothing," 
she  whispered,  clinging  to  him. 

"  That  I  shall  get  the  sack,  oh  Mem-sahib,"  he 
answered,  lowering  his  eyes  to  hers. 

She  drew  back,  her  cheeks  on  fire.  She  searched  him 
swiftly,  uncertain,  then  asked — "  Why  do  you  say  that — 
why,  why  ?  " 

"  Don't  know,  dearest,"  he  said,  with  a  queer  indrawing 
of  breath. 

"  Has  anything  been  said  ?  "  she  persisted. 


THE  CLOSING  OF  GATES  239 

"  Nothing  definite,  only  MeClure  has  ..." 

"  He  was  kind,"  she  interjected,  "  just  remember  .  .  ." 

"  Yes.  I  know.  But  MeClure  is  a  business  man,  Loo. 
If  he  thinks  it  is  to  his  interest  to  keep  me  in  command  he 
will  keep  me — otherwise  I  shall  be  told  to  resign  ..." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  so  before  we  started,  dearest  ?  "  she 
whispered,  her  hand  reaching  up  as  though  to  screen  him. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  wouldn't  tell  me  ?  " 

He  shrugged  over  this,  making  light  of  it  with  the 
phrase — "  What  was  the  use  ?  " 

"  Use  !  "  She  clung  to  him  at  the  word  in  spite  of  its 
sting.  "  No — you  are  right  there.  I  could  have  done 
nothing.  And  now  I  can  do  less  .  .  .  that  is  one  of  the 
prerogatives  of  a  woman,  Den — to  sit  still  and  do  nothing 
.  .  .  nothing,  although  it  breaks  her  heart.  No,  dearest— 
I  am  not  slating  you.  It  was  no  use  your  telling  me. 
It  is  no  use  now  .  .  .  but  I  am  just  beginning  to  recog- 
nise the  hole  I  put  you  in  by — by  marrying  you  .  .  . 
and — and  wondering  what  in  the  world  I  can  do — to, 
to  help  you,  Den.  ..." 

They  drew  together  in  the  dusk,  up  there  in  the  chart- 
room,  just  when  it  seemed  that  events  had  decided  to 
push  them  apart. 

"  I  won't  hear  that  .  .  .  you  are  my  wife,"  said  Den. 

"  I  won't  say  it  again,  oh  dearest,"  Lucy  faltered, 
"  but  it  is  true." 

The  docks  had  gone  for  a  brief  spell  to  sleep.  Men 
outside  and  in  the  sheds  were  taking  tea  from  little  blue 
cans.  Far  off  were  the  sounds  of  shunting  trains  and 
wailing  river  horns  ;  far  off  their  home  and  all  talk  of  an 
encumbrance.  They  drew  together  as  in  the  old  days  on 
the  Saladin  ;  as  at  Suez,  that  wonderful  night  when  the 
desert  lay  at  their  feet  and  the  world  was  before  them. 
They  decided  to  face  what  came  together.  If  it  brought 
peace — well ;  if  it  brought  pain — then  well  again  .  .  . 
provided  always  and  for  all  time  they  kept  in  touch — 
close,  close,  so  that  nothing  could  tear  them  apart. 

They  decided,  too,  not  to  go  to  town  to-night ;  not  to 
take  rooms  out  there  near  Hyde  Park  so  that  the  prodigy 
might  breathe  fresh  air ;  not  to  go  to  the  theatre  .  .  . 
but  to  wait ;  because,  if  that  possibility  suggested  by 
Den  came  true,  they  would  want  every  penny  he  had 
earned  for  commonplace  things  like  milk  and  bread. 


240  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

Morning  came  at  the  docks  even  as  over  greater  London 
The  sun  climbed  through  a  smoke  haze  which  was  wonder- 
ful to  consider — a  red  bail,  dim,  shimmering  as  it  rose. 
Chimneys  barred  its  disc,  the  short  iron  masts  of  modern 
ships,  and  funnels  blotted  it  out ;  but  it  climbed  from  the 
blue  earth  and  presently  cooled  to  a  white  mistiness 
amidst  the  clouds.  With  the  morning  came  dock 
labourers,  breakfast,  work  ;  and  at  eleven  o'clock  O'Hagan 
entered  the  office  to  seek  McClure. 

He  was  taken  in  with  the  same  courtesy  as  on  that 
wonderful  occasion  when  the  gates  were  beginning  to 
close  upon  him  and  upon  Lucy.  It  was  difficult  to  realise 
that  presently  he  would  again  be  compelled  to  watch 
them  as  they  swung  to. 

McClure  had  no  knowledge  of  these  or  any  other  gates. 
Success  stood  like  a  mirror  to  brighten  him.  He  scarcely 
understood  difficulty  as  a  monetary  pain ;  poverty, 
although  the  word  in  another  form  was  constantly  on  his 
lips,  the  lips  especially  of  Mrs.  McClure,  he  did  not  under- 
stand. The  world,  the  business  world  of  shipowners  was 
a  very  pleasant  one.  The  world,  in  point  of  fact,  for 
McClure,  was  exactly  what  he  chose  to  make  of  it.  And 
to-day  O'Hagan  as  he  entered  found  him  suave,  polite, 
armed  cap-a-pie  in  kindliness.  He  rose  and  extended  a 
cool  hand. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  you  look  well  and  hearty,  captain 
.  .  .  take  that  chair  .  .  .  draw  it  a  little  nearer  .  .  . 
rather  different  to  the  poor  devils  who  have  to  look  after 
your  interests  here — eh  ?  " 

McClure  figured  for  a  moment  as  one  of  the  poor  devils. 
It  is  an  attitude  easily  adopted,  and  in  the  hands  of  an 
expert  is  efficacious.  Naturally  he  made  no  allusion  to 
the  week-ends  he  enjoyed — Friday  to  Tuesday — nor  the 
hours  he  spent  away  from  the  office.  It  was  the  sort  of 
lapse  anticipated  by  his  genial  salutation,  yet  McClure 
was  kind. 

Captain  O'Hagan  found  a  seat  and  admitted  in  even 
tones  that  he  was  well ;  but  he  had  no  words  of  sympathy 
for  the  poor  devils.  In  his  mind  he  was  sure  that  the 
gates  would  be  closed.  It  was  no  longer  a  question.  He 
was  sure.  This  was  but  a  preliminary. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  O'Hagan  ?  "  questioned  McClure. 

"  She  is  quite  well,  sir,"  O'Hagan  admitted. 

"  Enjoyed  the  trip  I  hope  ?  " 


THE  CLOSING  OF  GATES  241 

"  Indeed  yes.  It  is  a  matter  on  which  I  am  sure  she 
would  wish  to  express  herself,  when  she  has  an  oppor- 
tunity." 

"Ah!"   sighed  McClure. 

For  a  short  space  he  remained  silent,  studying  the  face 
which  bespoke  health  and  heartiness;  then  he  swung 
slightly  the  swivel  chair  and,  resting  his  arms,  said — 

"  I  never  indulge  in  circumlocution.  There  is  no  sense 
in  it  between  men.  I  can  see,"  he  added  with  his  old 
precision,  "  that  you  have  an  inkling  that  the  forecast  I 
made  of  what  might  occur  was  correct.  It  was.  Lloyd's 
have  acted  as  I  expected.  I  need  not  tell  you  I  am  sorry, 
for  I  think  you  will  give  me  credit  so  far — and  I  confess 
that  it  is  not  my  wish  to  add  to  your  difficulties  ;  but,  as 
I  warned  you  on  your  appointment,  I  cannot  continue 
you  in  command  now  that  the  question  has  arisen.  To 
be  quite  candid,  it  was  the  merest  accident  that  it  did  not 
arise  before  you  sailed  .  .  .  you  follow  me  ?  " 

"  Perfectly." 

"  To  put  the  matter  very  bluntly,  Captain  O'Hagan, 
you  are  on  the  Black  List.  .  .  .  Lloyd's  differentiate 
against  you  on  their  policy  in  future.  The  premium  I 
shall  have  to  pay,  if  I  chose  to  ignore  Lloyd's,  which  I 
cannot  do,  would  be  considerably  increased.  I  have,  of 
course,  large  influence  with  my  shareholders  ;  but  I  doubt 
whether  I  should  be  able  to  persuade  them  to  incur  the 
additional  expense.  And — I  must  point  out — if  the 
question  came  up  for  discussion,  I  should  be  compelled 
to  raise  that  most  unfortunate  matter  of  the  Sphinx.  .  .  . 
And  they " 

As  McClure  lifted  shoulders  over  this  O'Hagan  acknow- 
ledged that  the  gates  were  closing. 

"  I  see  your  difficulty,"  he  said  slowly.  "  It  is  very 
plain  .  .  .  but  I  do  not  think  it  will  be  necessary  to  raise 
it  if — as  I  understand — you  wish  me  to  send  in  my 
resignation  ?  " 

McClure  acknowledged  that  this  would  be  the  simpler 
way. 

"  But  it  means  that  I  may  not  do  the  only  work  I  am 
trained  to  do,"  O'Hagan  urged. 

Again  McClure  made  a  gesture  indicative  of  assent,  but 
he  seemed  oppressed  and,  leaning  forward  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair,  said — 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  allow  you  to  think  .1  am  doing 
B.P.  B 


242  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

this  with  any  sort  of  pleasure.  It  is  repugnant,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  but  my  hands  are  tied.  I  must  talk  it  over  with 
Worsdale.  It  is  a  very  difficult  problem.  They  differen- 
tiate against  you  at  Lloyd's — merely  as  a  business  pre- 
caution. There  is  no  hostility  to  you  personally  in  their 
action.  You  are  one  of  many  all  equally  unfortunate — 
and  while  conditions  remain  as  they  are  shipowners  have 
no  option  but  to  acquiesce — you  see  that,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  see  that  I  am  broken,"  O'Hagan  made  answer,  his 
lips  firm,  his  face  alternately  flushed  and  very  pale. 

"  It  is  the  last  thing  I  desire,"  McClure  admitted, 
watching.  "  You  believe  that  ?  " 

"  I  understand  that  you  acted  with  great  kindness 
when  you  gave  me  command,"  O'Hagan  acknowledged. 
"  And  I  gather  that  nothing  has  happened  since  to  make 
you  regret  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing — absolutely  nothing." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  O'Hagan  breathed.  "  I  went  into 
the  Strathmuir  with  my  eyes  open  " — he  leaned  forward 
over  this  ;  "  you  told  me  the  position  and  I  accepted  it. 
I  have  no  stones  to  throw  on  that  head — but  I  have  this 
to  say,  and  I  think  it  only  fair  you  should  hear  it.  .  .  ." 

McClure  bowed. 

"  I  was  tried,"  O'Hagan  hissed  out,  "  by  a  court 
which  did  not  comprehend  the  questions  at  issue.  The 
assessors  were  incompetent.  They  were  old — sailing-ship 
men — one  of  them  was  deaf,  one  of  them  dozed  .  .  . 
that  is  enough  to  warrant  my  criticism.  .  .  . 

"  The  Sphinx  was  lost,  sir,  because  her  deck-load  broke 
adrift.  It  made  her  top-heavy.  I  was  on  deck  till  I 
dropped,  and  while  I  was  below  asleep,  the  mate,  who  was 
dead  beat  also,  ran  her  ashore.  The  court  said  in  their 
j  udgment  that  the  Sphinx  was  seaworthy.  I  say  definitely 
that  no  ship  which  carries  great  weights  on  her  upper 
deck  is  seaworthy.  .  .  .  Men  are  killed  by  these  deck- 
loads.  Ships  are  lost  through  them — and  we  who  com- 
mand, if  we  happen  to  be  saved,  are  compelled  to  stand 
our  trial  before  people  who  know  nothing  of  the  sea. 
That  is  not  justice.  I  was  suspended.  I  served  my 
time  "• — he  threw  the  phrase  out  with  an  intensity  which 
compelled  McClure  to  glance  round — "  and  when  my  ticket 
is  restored  to  me  I  find  I  am  blacklisted.  .  .  ." 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood  swaying  slightly  as  he 
spoke,  one  hand  outstretched. 


THE  CLOSING;  OF  GATES  243 

"  If  that  is  justice,"  he  said^deliberately,  "  then  I  have 
done  with  England.  If  that  is  the  law,  then  I  must  seek 
elsewhere  for  a  means  of  pursuing  my  calling.  Australia 
perhaps,  Canada — Saigon,  some  remote  spot  in  the  East 
where  they  know  nothing  of  the  Black  List  and  care  less. 
But  it  is  not  justice  which  compels  me  to  get  out  of  the 
country.  .  .  .  For  two  pins  I  would  not  go  out — I  would 
stay  and  fight  it — fight  it,  Mr.  McClure,  so  that  ship- 
owners and  Government  and  Lloyd's  may  understand 
that  you  may  not  blacklist  a  man  unless  he  is  a  sot,  a 
blackguard,  a  devil  if  you  choose — plainly  and  visibly 
before  the  world.  .  .  ." 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  dry  lips  while  McClure 
stared,  astonished  at  the  man's  force. 

"  You  know  what  subornation  is  ?  "  he  questioned. 
"  So  do  I  to-day.  When  I  stood  on  trial  I  did  not.  I 
had  never  heard  of  it.  I  didn't  think  a  white  man  could 
play  it  so  low.  But  Sharum  did  it.  Sharum  and  his 
witnesses  lied.  They  lied  knowing  they  lied.  They  lied 
as  only  cowards  and  devils  will  lie — and  one  day,  please 
God  !  I'll  bring  men  to  see  that  they  lied.  ..." 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  stick  and  stood  ready  to  go. 
McClure  watched,  silent  under  this  lashing.  He  was 
unused  to  it.  He  resented  it  at  all  events  in  manner. 

"  You  were  kind  to  me,  sir,"  O'Hagan  added  more 
softly,  "  when  I  was  in  a  devilish  tight  place — and  I  wish 
to  thank  you.  You  set  the  clock  going  for  the  pair  of  us 
— and  kept  it  going  for  six — nearly  eight  months.  I 
shall  not  forget  that  .  .  .  but " — he  leaned  forward 
emphasizing  the  point — "  now  it  stops  again." 

"  If,"  he  said  with  the  old  ringing  challenge,  "  Lloyd's 
are  to  discriminate  against  men  in  my  position,  Lloyd's 
should  see  that  the  courts  are  clean.  This  is  a  sentence 
of — of — starvation  for  me."  He  stumbled,  moved  towards 
the  door,  and  suddenly  turned  holding  it  wide.  "Even 
your  criminals  are  fed,"  he  launched  upon  that  quiet  room. 

Then  in  a  white  heat  of  passion  he  made  his  way  into 
the  street  and  McClure  returned  to  his  chair. 

"  Rather  a  firebrand,"  he  commented  as  he  sat. 

That  night  O'Hagan's  resignation  was  dealt  with  by  the 
secretary  of  the  Pampas  Line.  In  a  neatly  typed  letter 
he  begged  to  accept  it. 


Phase  the  Fourth 
Expiation 


CHAPTER  I 

PETER   WITTERSPOON 

I  love  you,  dear,  there  is  no  rue, 

It  matters  nothing  what  they  say  ; 
You  stand  by  me,  I'll  stand  by  you, 

And  all  our  work  is  play. 

I  have  but  you,  you  have  but  me, 

We  never  yet  succumbed  to  pain  ; 
I'd  give  what's  left  to  give  of  me 

To  hear  you  laugh  again. 

You  are  my  soul.     I  am  your  slave, 

I  would  not  alter  that  a  breath ; 
God  gave  you  me.  He'll  make  me  brave 

I'm  yours,  all  yours  till  death. 

LONDON  even  in  the  dark  days  of  January  can  be  as 
pleasant  as  any  other  great  city  in  the  world  for  those 
with  a  full  purse  ;  but  for  those  on  the  edge  of  poverty, 
or  those  who  find  themselves  debarred  work,  it  is  cruel 
with  the  cold  malignity  of  the  Arctic. 

The  wind  was  easterly  and  a  thin  fog  lay  over  the  great 
city.  About  the  streets  abutting  on  the  parks  the  air 
was  scarcely  denser  than  that  which  trickled  over  the 
marshland  below  Riverton  ;  but  patches  of  yellow  clung 
to  the  city  as  in  the  older  and  less  strenuous  days. 
Fenchurch  Street,  the  Monument,  Leadenhall  Market  and 
all  that  maze  of  streets  and  passages  which  connect  them, 
were  lighted  already  at  two  o'clock. 

The  new  offices  of  Sharums,  Limited,  stood  midway  down 
Longman  Avenue,  a  winding  lane  running  north  and 
south,  which  sometimes  gets  a  glimpse  of  the  sun  at  noon 
and  sometimes  for  days  together  never  sees  its  shadows. 
In  spite  of  blurred  windows  and  grey  fronts  dripping 
moisture  Sharums  hummed  content.  Its  windows  were 
no  dirtier  than  others  in  the  City.  The  narrow  pavements 
which  bordered  it  were  as  well  squeegeed  as  others ;  its 
portion  of  the  brown  incubus  was  no  denser  than  that 
which  lay  elsewhere ;  its  share  of  the  blue-faced  brigade 
quite  normal. 


248  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

Hawkers  stood  there  as  everywhere.  The  loafers  and 
known  mendicants  were  not  a  whit  brisker  or  more 
miserable  than  their  brothers  of  St.  Paul's  Churchyard, 
Queen's  Road  or  the  Grove.  Business  men,  clerks  and 
messengers,  threaded  swiftly  to  and  fro  this  path  of 
industrialism.  The  miserable  by-products  of  that  same 
industrialism  \vhined,  displayed  toys  or  bootlaces,  their 
hurts  or  their  hopes,  and  stamped  drearily  their  sodden 
feet. 

A  weary  voice  droned  at  the  end  of  a  passage  to  the 
accompaniment  of  an  accordion — 

"  Who's  for  the  Shore,  brothers, 
Who's  for  the  Shore " 

with  the  slow  intensity  of  one  chewing  the  cud  of  failure. 
No  one  heeded  him. 

Denis  O'Hagan  came  down  the  street,  stood  a  moment 
to  stare  at  the  office  of  Sharums,  Limited,  and  passed  on. 
Fifteen  minutes  later  Lucy  O'Hagan  walked  the  same  way. 

Sharum  lounged  at  his  ease  beside  a  writing  table  in  his 
room.  On  his  left  a  fire  burned  cheerily  in  a  tiled  grate. 
The  door  opened  and  he  turned  to  see  a  slight,  keen  man 
entering.  This  was  Peter  Witterspoon,  the  dandy  financier 
who  had  set  Sharum  on  his  legs  and  Leadenhall  Street  by 
the  ears. 

He  was  clean-shaven,  dark  and  very  alert — immensely 
alive.  And  he  was  the  son  of  an  eminent  pill  manu- 
facturer who  had  left  a  fortune  in  "  millions."  No 
expense  had  been  spared  in  turning  out  young  Witter- 
spoon. Harrow  began  the  polishing  process,  Oxford  and 
the  Bar  finished  it.  He  had  no  use  for  pills  and  he  knew 
by  instinct  a  business  man  when  he  saw  him.  He  had, 
as  may  be  gauged,  a  long  purse. 

When  he  "  chucked  "  the  Bar  he  took  to  the  wealthy 
man's  amusements  with  avidity.  He  travelled,  hunted, 
shot  big  game  ;  flirted  in  India  and  on  liners,  on  his  yacht 
and  in  Paris.  At  the  moment  he  was  engaged  on  this 
"  spec.  "  in  shipping  which  seemed  to  be  turning  out 
trumps.  Three  years  ago  he  met  Sharum  in  a  deal  which 
resulted  in  something  like  cent,  per  cent,  profit.  Witter- 
spoon approved  that  sort  of  thing.  He  said  it  was  the 
bread  of  life  to  him — and  perhaps  it  was.  His  nose  told 
tales,  so  did  his  keen,  black  eyes,  his  wavy  dark  hair. 

Outside  in  the  fog  derelicts  sold  laces  for  the  bread  of 


PETER  WITTERSPOON  249 

life ;  inside  Sharums  they  employed  capital  at  cent,  per 
cent.,  if  possible,  to  the  same  end. 

In  London,  Liverpool,  Glasgow,  Bristol,  business  was 
booming.  The  shipyards  hummed  and  there  were  not 
enough  steamers  to  go  round.  After  a  period  of  such 
stagnation  as  statistics  may  prove,  a  boom  had  set  in  and 
shipowners  were  coming  to  their  own.  New  firms  were 
leaping  to  the  front,  damned  by  the  old.  An  organiser's 
game,  it  -was  termed  by  those  who  rolled  in  profits— 
cheese-paring,  loss  of  efficiency,  undermanning,  over- 
loading by  those  Bottle-Fillers  who  carried  out  the 
game. 

But  Witterspoon  knew  nothing  of  this — he  only  knew 
a  business  man  when  he  saw  him.  He  asked  no  questions 
of  Sharum  or  any  of  his  underlings.  Underlings  as  a 
matter  of  detail  did  not  exist  in  the  cosmos  of  Mr.  Peter 
Witterspoon — and  yet  he  was  a  kindly  soul,  with  definite 
hopes  and  beliefs. 

The  door  snapped  behind  him  and  he  advanced  with  the 
usual  salutation — staccato,  exclamatory, — 

"  Hallo  !  Caught  you  napping,  eh  ?  No  wonder  .  .  . 
weather  enough  to  choke  a  carburettor — what?  Any 
news  ?  " 

Sharum  glanced  at  a  roll  of  papers  which  lay  before  him 
on  the  table. 

"  Any  quantity." 

"  Passable  ?  " 

"  Speaking  generally — quite  good.  I  should  like  to  be 
able  to  put  my  finger  on  a  few  more  boats  .  .  .  but  they 
aren't  on  the  market." 

"  Bad  as  that  ?  " 

"  Good  as  that,"  Sharum  corrected,  nodding. 

"  Capital !  Well — I'm  rather  thinking  of  running  over 
to  Paris  for  a  fortnight.  .  .  .  Decided  to  go  last  night. 
Checked  this  morning,  by  Jove.  Suppose  I  can  manage 
it,  eh  ?  " 

"  While  there's  a  wire,"  Sharum  shrugged. 

"  Good  .  .  .  thinking  as  a  matter  of  fact  of  having  a 
bit  of  a  splash.  .  .  .  How  do  we  stand  ?  Don't  want  to 
break  the  bank  you  know — roughly — now — what  are  we 
rolling  in  ?  " 

Sharum  reached  for  cigars  and  cigarettes,  rose  and  pulled 
a  chair  near.  "  Sit  down,"  he  said.  "  We  can't  talk 
business  like  this.  Smoke  ?  " 


250  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

Witterspoon  took  a  cigar,  Sharum  did  the  same,  then 
each  lighted  and  sat  back  to  enjoy  life  as  they  made  it. 

"  I  hear,"  said  Witterspoon,  "  that  the  Pampas  people 
have  returned  their  capital  since  the  boom  started  .  .  . 
rather  good,  that,  eh  ?  " 

Sharum  twisted  his  cigar,  withdrew  it  and  said  through 
the  smoke — "  Not  so  bad." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  tell  me  you  can  beat  it  ?  " 

"  Roughly  ?  " 

"  Yes — just  an  idea  to  be  going  on  with." 

*'  A  thousand  per  month,  all  round.  Clear.  Thirty 
bottoms."  * 

Witterspoon  gazed  through  half-closed  eyes  at  the  calm 
lips  which  announced  these  figures.  He  made  a  rapid 
calculation  and  said  with  lifted  chin — 

"  That  runs  into  three  hundred  and  sixty  thousand,  my 
friend  ?  " 

The  friend  nodded.     He  could  afford  to  be  nonchalant. 

"  Can't  last  at  that  pace  ?  "  Witterspoon  surmised, 
twisting  his  cigar  with  delicate  touch. 

"  I  think  we  have  seen  the  best  .  .  .  but  there  is  a 
good  run  to  come." 

"  Understand,"  Witterspoon  tossed  back,  "  I  don't  want 
to  be  left  in  the  thing." 

The  thing  in  question  was  chartering  and  owning 
British  steamers,  loading  them,  finding  their  crews, 
paying  them.  It  was  the  thing  which  kept  Sharums 
employed  ;  clerks  with  their  noses  to  the  desks,  messen- 
gers threading  byeways,  telephones  buzzing — and  at  the 
docks  crowds  of  frayed  men  within  hail  of  a  ganger  whom 
they  termed  vicariously,  hating  him,  the  Bloke  and  God 
Almighty. 

"  I'll  take  everything  over  as  it  stands,"  Sharum  replied 
in  his  quick  fashion,  "  when  you  tell  me  you  are  tired. 
That  do  ?  " 

"  Quite." 

Witterspoon's  eyes  travelled  round  the  room.  A  few 
fine  engravings  hung  on  the  walls.  There  was  little  to 
suggest  an  office.  The  furniture  of  old  oak  shone  as 
though  Sharums  had  discovered  the  lost  trick  of  glaze. 
In  the  centre  of  a  Jacobean  press  stood  a  piece  of  Delft — 
blue  upon  brown,  the  artist's  soul  laid  bare. 

*  Thirty  vessels. 


PETER  WITTERSPOON  251 

Witterspoon  came  back  to  the  man  sitting  quietly  before 
him,  his  legs  stretched  to  the  fire. 

"  Rather  a  change  from  up  north,"  he  said  lightly. 

"  The  chance  of  a  lifetime,"  Sharum  acquiesced. 

"  Do  you  never  make  mistakes  ?  "  Witterspoon 
pressed. 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  You  don't  advertise  them,  anyway.  Clear  of  that 
bother  with  the  Sphinx  yet  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  One  of  your  mistakes,  eh  ?  " 

"  The  only  one  I  remember,"  Sharum  nodded. 

"  Man  in  it  called  O'Hagan,  wasn't  there  ?  " 

"  Yes — and  another  called  Barlow.  Wish  I'd  never 
seen  them." 

"  Go  on.  I'm  interested,"  said  Peter  Witterspoon. 
"  For  half  an  hour  I'm  going  to  laze." 

"  It  may  take  ten  minutes."  Sharum  reached  for  the 
financial  section  of  the  Times,  opened  it  and  pointed  to  a 
paragraph  which  he  gave  his  friend  to  read. 

Witterspoon  put  up  an  eyeglass,  and  tucked  the  black 
ribbon  which  held  it  behind  his  ear. 

"  '  Casa  Blanco,,'  "  he  read,  "  '  London,  May  20th,  for 
Valparaiso.  Boat  found  in  50°  45'S.  66°  50'W.' "  He 
returned  the  paper,  shook  down  his  glass  and  said — 
"  Greek  to  me.  What  is  it  ?  Belong  to  us  ?  And  why 
fifty  guineas  per  cent.  ?  " 

"  She  belongs  to  Chile — but  I  shall  have  to  make  good 
any  loss  my  cousin  makes  on  her." 

"  Yes— but  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Tug,  built  here  to  the  order  of  some  firm  in  Valparaiso 
— and  the  mistake  I  made  was  in  allowing  her  to  sail  in 
charge  of  this  chap  Barlow,  a  man  I  knew  to  be  a  fool.  ..." 

"  Afraid  you've  got  a  soul  after  all,"  Witterspoon 
commented. 

"  It  doesn't  worry  me,"  Sharum  waived,  airily  brandish- 
ing his  cigar.  "  Sailormen  don't  catch  me  often — but  here 
was  a  case  of  a  man  with  three  children,  wife,  and  mother 
no  doubt  somewhere  in  the  background,  all  of  whom  were 
on  the  point  of  starvation  owing  to  the  loss  of  the  Sphinx 
— one  of  my  boats  in  the  old  days.  ..." 

"  You  thought  it  cheaper  to  wink  than  to  denounce, 
eh  ?  Good  man,"  Witterspoon  commented. 

'*  I  4id  not,  I  admit,  wish  to  reopen  the  whole  question. 


252  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

This  fellow  was  mate  of  the  Sphinx  when  she  was  lost. 
He  and  his  skipper,  O'Hagan,  were  tried  and  were  sus- 
pended. I  had  a  lot  of  trouble  in  the  matter.  These  two 
fools  went  so  far  as  to  try  to  saddle  me  with  their  burden. 
They  said  the  Sphinx  was  unseaworthy,  by  God  !  and  I 
had  to  use  all  my  influence  to  quash  that  ..." 

"  Naturally,"  Witterspoon  interjected,  and  added  in  his 
quizzical  vein,  "  And  was  she  ?  " 

"  She  was  as  sound  as  this  table  !  "  Sharum  thumped 
out,  striking  it. 

"  Good.  I  take  your  word  for  it.  Don't  know  any- 
thing about  it  and  don't  want  to.  ...  Well,  what  has 
the  Casa  Blanco,  idiot  done  ?  " 

*'  Lost  her  as  far  as  I  can  read  it." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  Somewhere  between  the  Magellans  and  Falkland 
Islands,  it  seems." 

"  A  tug — down  there  !  "  Witterspoon  lifted  his  brows 
over  this. 

"Panama  isn't  open  yet;  how  else  could  he  get?" 
Sharum  questioned  in  return. 

"  Couldn't,  of  course.  Poor  devil  .  .  .  well,  and  where 
do  you  come  in  ?  " 

"  My  cousin  is  an  underwriter,"  Sharum  reminded. 

"  I  know.  And  this  thing  hits  him,  eh  ?  Rough  luck  ! 
No  chance  for  her  at  all,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Devilish  little.  The  '  doctors  '  rate  her  at  fifty  per 
cent." 

"  So  I  see.  Well,  who  found  the  wreckage  or  whatever 
it  is  that  has  turned  up  ?  " 

"  One  of  the  Pacific  liners  brought  in  her  boat — and 
announced  the  fact.  She  will  go  to  ninety  guineas  or  so 
and  then  get  posted.  That  is  all  we  shall  ever  hear  of — 
her,"  Sharum  said  in  his  growling  undertone.  "  The  only 
thing  that  annoys  me,"  he  went  on,  "  is  that  I  did  not  do 
my  duty  by  the  Association.  I  allowed  feeling  to  inte  r- 
vene.  That  was  a  mistake.  The  fellow  shipped  in  a 
false  name  and  was  in  touch  with  his  skipper  to  the  last 
— the  pair  supposed  they  hoodwinked  me.  Me,  by  the 
Lord  !  You  may  be  sure,"  he  added,  after  this  outburst, 
"  I  shall  not  slip  twice  in  the  same  rut." 

Witterspoon  laughed  aloud,  slapping  his  thigh.  "  Got 
on  your  nerves,  eh  ?  Jove  !  I  thought  ..." 

"  These  two  did  me  more  damage,"  Sharum  insisted, 


PETER  WITTERSPOON  253 

"  than  I  supposed  any  sailorman  could  manage.  Unsea- 
worthy  mind  !  You  don't  seem  to  appreciate  that  brick  ; 
but  it's  the  sort  that  hits  pretty  hard  these  days.  There's 
so  much  rubbish  talked  about  it.  O'Hagan  should  have 
known  better  than  to  use  it.  He  seems  to  be  another 
of  those  chaps  who  can  control  neither  their  ships  nor 
their  tongues.  ..." 

"  Who  is  that  ?  " 

"  O'Hagan." 

Witterspoon  withdrew  his  cigar  and,  staring  over  lifted 
hands,  said — "  O'Hagan — I  seem  to  know  that  name 
somehow.  Incompetent  too  ?  " 

"  They  took  him  on  at  the  Pampas  Line ;  but  I  hear 
he  is  discharged." 

"  Wife  and  family,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Sharum  shrugged  over  this,  enjoying  his  cigar. 
Witterspoon  sent  a  ring  of  smoke  ceilingwards  and  said — 

"  Well — and  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  him  ?  " 

"Fight  him,"  Sharum  decided,  bristling,  "if  he  makes 
it  necessary." 

And  again  Witterspoon  commented  in  his  airy  fashion — 
"  Poor  devil !  " 

He  rose,  crossed  the  room,  and  stood  examining  a  beauti- 
ful engraving  of  old  London  with  the  Thames  and  Tower 
in  the  foreground.  He  put  up  his  glass,  read  the  name 
of  "  your  humble  and  obedient  servant  "  who  had  etched 
it,  stepped  back  and  said — 

"  Care  to  part  with  that  ?  " 

"  Guess  not." 

"  Hum  !  Know  too  much  1  Well — I'm  off  for  an  hour 
or  so.  I  have  an  appointment  here  presently  and  will 
look  in  before  I  go  west.  .  .  .  Au  revoir." 

The  door  cushioned  on  the  valve  behind  him  as  Sharum 
turned  to  his  letters. 

Longman  Avenue  was  dingier  an  hour  later,  colder, 
rawer,  more  given  over  to  sudden  eruptions  of  wind- 
driven  paper,  smuts,  and  the  chant  of  those  who  sold  toys. 
But  for  the  lamps  it  would  have  been  quite  dark,  and  they 
glowed  like  dim  moons  seen  through  aureoles. 

At  four  o'clock  the  City  begins  to  show  signs  that  the 
men  who  inhabit  it  sleep  elsewhere.  The  big-wigs  move 
off  to  catch  trains  or  climb  into  the  cars  which  await  them. 
Others,  less  happy,  or  less  wealthy,  make  a  bee-line  for 


254  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

tea  and  dominoes — fifteen  minutes  interval  before  going 
back  to  their  ledgers.  For  the  clerk-brigade  remains 
to  add  and  subtract,  to  carry  over,  and  to  balance  long 
after  the  majority  of  principals  have  vanished. 

But  Sharum  was  not  of  the  majority.  Golf,  week-ends, 
river  trips  scarcely  appealed  to  him  now.  He  was  out 
to  win  money,  fame  at  the  hands  of  the  richest  community 
of  business  men  in  the  world,  and  the  hive  he  commanded 
hummed  behind  closed  doors.  He  was  there  to  tap  the 
boom  while  it  existed,  to  run  his  ships  while  freights 
showed  a  profit ;  and  to  lay  them  up  in  tiers,  sans  crew, 
when  that  was  no  longer  possible. 

That  was  one  of  the  results  of  what  he  termed  organisation. 
It  is  also  one  of  the  reasons  why  embryo  Bottle-fillers 
shake  their  heads  at  the  sea — but  this  he  did  not  consider. 

As  half  past  four  tolled  on  the  chimes  of  a  hidden  church, 
from  the  curve  of  Longman  Avenue  a  woman  appeared 
walking  quickly  and  examining  the  grim  frontages  for 
the  sign  she  required.  Lucy  O'Hagan  came  here  once 
more,  her  heart  beating  alternately  in  hope  and  fear. 
She  was  bracing  for  an  ordeal.  She  had  already  undergone 
the  scrutiny  of  a  messenger,  several  clerks,  and  the  cashier 
of  the  Pampas  Line ;  had  heard  it  explained,  after  her  name 
had  been  handed,  on  a  slip  of  limp  paper,  from  one  to 
another,  that  Mr.  McClure  was  not  at  the  office.  The 
messenger  believed  he  had  gone  home,  the  cashier  fancied 
he  had  run  round  to  his  club,  the  clerks  were  unanimous 
in  the  opinion  that  he  left  at  three  o'clock. 

Lucy  discovered  bias  in  this  general  head-shaking. 
These  understrappers  had  pierced  her  identity  and  were 
acting  on  instructions.  She  recognised  now  that  McClure 
was  a  very  busy  man  who  never  saw  people  without  an 
appointment — and,  said  the  cashier  in  his  fatherly  manner, 
some  indication  of  the  nature  of  a  caller's  business.  The 
man  looked  like  a  doctor,  and  Lucy  heard  him  say — 
"  In  self-defence  this  is  essential,  otherwise,  you  see,  the 
chief's  very  valuable  time  would  be  frittered  away — you 
see  that,  don't  you  ?  Abso-lu-tely  frittered." 

Of  course  Mrs.  O'Hagan  saw,  but  she  remembered  that 
this  difficulty  was  only  disclosed  when  the  staff  had 
become  acquainted  with  her  name.  She  came  from  the 
offices  of  the  Pampas  Line  biting  her  lips  at  the  indiscre- 
tion she  had  displayed.  They  were  kindly  enough,  suave, 
apologetic,  but  they  had  no  intention  of  permitting  Mrs, 


PETER  WITTERSPOON  255 

O'Hagan  within  the  doors  of  that  holy  of  holies  which 
once  had  sheltered  Den.  She  came  down  Longman 
Avenue  now  shaking  off  assistance.  The  pauper  tribe 
not  yet  vanished  to  their  lairs  scented  a  novice  and  would 
have  earned  pennies  had  she  shown  signs  of  uncertainty. 
But  she  held  on.  She  had  learned  exactly  where  to  find 
these  offices  and  had  set  out  "  to  see  what  she  could  do." 

She  was  like  Amaryllis  come  to  the  land  where  dollars 
are  earned  to  dress  her  and  her  cousins  of  the  town. 
Come,  not  for  a  Stock  Exchange  tip,  but  to  plead  the  cause 
of  a  husband.  Come,  not  as  one  of  the  new  fighters,  but 
to  learn  in  the  old  way  what  the  Black  List  is,  why  it 
exists,  how  "  inimical  to  business "  it  would  be  if  this 
"  deterrent  "  were  removed.  True,  she  had  no  knowledge 
of  business  j  knew  nothing  of  the  necessity  which  brings 
us  all  eventually  to  the  seat  of  custom.  She  knew  only 
that  Den  had  come  home  three  nights  ago  "  with  the  black 
rage  on  him  "  as  men  say  of  his  compatriots  when  they 
desire  to  emphasise  misery. 

Den  with  the  black  rage  on  him,  cursing  his  luck — it  had 
come  to  this  at  length — and  wondering  when  his  Appeal 
would  come  on,  was  a  sufficiently  pitiable  specimen  of 
the  Bottle-filler.  Lucy  scarcely  recognised  her  husband. 
He  had  gone  back  to  the  profitless  business  of  seeking 
work  in  the  City — so  that  he  might  be  at  hand  to  prosecute 
that  beast  Sharum,  clear  himself  as  Worsdale  desired,  and 
at  the  same  time  earn  enough  to  pay  his  railway  fares. 
Poor  Den  !  Poor  Lucy  !  The  two  stood  now  on  the 
threshold  of  what  the  Law  might  ordain.  Simply,  un- 
knowingly on  that. 

Lucy  found  the  door  without  removing  her  veil.  It 
was  plain  to  all  beholders.  Sharums  Limited  in  black 
and  red  lay  across  a  brass  plate  which  spanned  two  doors. 
She  could  have  seen  it  in  the  dark. 

Lucy  entered  and  discovered,  just  within  an  inquiry 
box,  a  commissionaire  wearing  medals.  Among  them 
was  one  for  the  Egyptian  Campaign,  1898  ;  and  to  him 
she  said  with  the  sang-froid  of  a  soldier's  daughter — 
"  Omdurman  ?  " 

The  grizzled  warrior  saluted  instantly. 

"  Yes,  lady— and  the  Flotilla." 

"  My  father  was  there  too — Major  Faulkner — Lord  K.'s 
staff — what  regiment  were  you  in  ?  " 

"  Gordons,  lady." 


256  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Ah  !  " 

Then  after  a  swift  glance  at  the  partition,  Lucy  said — • 
"  Is  Mr.  Sharum  in  ?  " 

"  Yes,  lady  .  .  .  what  name  shall  I  .  .  ." 

"Mr.  Sharum  would  not  know  it — just  say  that  some- 
one wishes  to  speak  with  him  for  a  few  minutes." 

The  man  was  moving  away  on  his  errand  when  his  chief 
emerged  ready  for  the  street.  That  halted  him.  He 
stood  erect,  his  hand  raised  in  salute,  and  said — 

"  A  lady,  sir,  to  see  you." 

Sharum  paused  and  moved  his  hat  while  Lucy  at  once 
drew  near. 

"  Mr.  Sharum  ?  "  she  asked,  her  eyes  acknowledging 
triumph. 

"  Yes  ?  " 

"  May  I  speak  with  you  a  few  minutes  ?  " 

Sharum  glanced  at  his  watch,  hesitated  in  a  fashion  no 
man  had  seen,  and  said  rather  brusquely — "  Yes,  I  suppose 
so  ...  come  this  way,  please." 

Apparently  he  had  noticed  that  in  her  eyes  which  told 
him  refusal  might  produce  a  scene.  He  disliked  scenes, 
especially  on  the  threshold  of  his  office. 

He  led  the  way  to  his  room,  switched  on  the  lights,  and 
as  the  commissionaire  closed  the  door  said — "  Pray 
take  a  seat."  Then  he  touched  a  button  and  faced  his 
visitor  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  said  "you  wish  to  see 
me — well,  here  I  am,  enthroned,  ready  with  witnesses — 
go  ahead  and  do  your  worst." 

"  My  name  is  O'Hagan." 

Lucy  broke  the  silence  with  this  bombshell  as  she  lifted 
her  veil.  At  the  same  instant  a  man  entered  the  room 
and  approached  Sharum.  He  bent  down,  speaking  very 
quietly,  so  quietly  that  only  the  drone  of  his  voice  reached 
Lucy.  Sharum  replied  in  the  same  tone,  the  man  moved 
quietly  away,  then  Sharum  looked  up  to  say — 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     You  were  saying  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  That  my  name  is  O'Hagan.  Captain  O'Hagan,  who 
was  in  the  Sphinx  " — she  spoke  in  clear,  well  modulated 
tones — "  is  my  husband,  and  I  have  come  to  see  if  I 
can  persuade  you  to  remove  his  name  from  the  Black 
List." 

Sharum  listened  courteously.  He  appeared  suave, 
collected,  quite  indifferent  either  to  the  fate  of  O'Hagan 
or  of  the  Black  List ;  but  like  McClure,  he  recognised  a 


PETER  WITTERSPOON  257 

pretty  woman  when  he  saw  one.  This  one  was  beautiful. 
A  bother,  that.  It  is  always  more  pleasant  to  help  a 
beautiful  woman  than  to  flout  her.  Yet  that  must  be  the 
upshot  here.  O'Hagan  !  The  very  name  stank  in  this 
man's  nostrils.  Why  the  devil  couldn't  he  fight  his 
own  battles  ?  What  have  shipowners  to  do  with  the 
women  who  are  fools  enough  to  marry  skippers  and  mates 
.  .  .  and  how  in  the  world  had  O'Hagan  managed  to  get 
hold  of  this  gem  ? 

So  ran  thought  behind  the  impassive  mask  of  this  man, 
whose  skippers  were  busy  rolling  in  profits  for  their  master 
to  the  tune  of  a  thousand  a  month.  He  scarcely  moved  in 
his  chair  to  answer  her. 

"  I  am  in  no  sense  responsible  for  the  position,"  he 
said.  "  The  Black  List,  if  it  exists  at  all,  except  in  the 
imagination  of  singularly  susceptible  people,  I  take  it 
exists  at  Lloyd's.  .  .  .  Shipowners  at  all  events  are  not 
concerned  with  it.  ..." 

"  Shipowners,"  she  reminded  him,  "  refuse  to  take 
officers  who  are  on  the  Black  List." 

Sharum  extended  his  hands. 

"  Possibly.  I  cannot  speak  to  the  truth  of  that — or 
the  reverse." 

"  Mr.  Sharum,"  Lucy  leaned  forward,  her  voice  pleading 
where  she  could  have  slain,  "it  is  impossible  for  you  to 
persuade  me  that  you  do  not  know  that  my  husband  is  on 
the  Black  List.  He  commanded  the  Sphinx.  The  Sphinx 
belonged  to  you.  He  was  suspended  for  her  loss  and 
as  a  consequence  of  that  suspension  his  name  is  on  the  list 
of  men  who  are  not  considered  fit  for  command.  That  is 
unfair.  You  know  he  is  fit.  He  commanded  in  the 
Pampas  Line,  but  Mr.  McClure  refuses  to  allow  him  to 
remain — while  his  name  is  on  that  list.  That  is  ruin  to 
him — and  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  use  your  influence 
to  get  it  removed.  .  .  ." 

Sharum's  answer  was  short  and  explicit. 

"  I  have  no  influence  at  all  in  this  matter." 

"  But  you  will  not  refuse  to  see  those  who  have  ?  " 

"  Sorry  as  I  am  to  disappoint  you — I  must  decline," 
Sharum  answered  at  once. 

"  But — but  it  is  killing  my  husband  .  .  .  breaking  him 
up.  Don't  you  see,  that  if  you  take  away  his  livelihood  in 
this  way,  something  dreadful  will  happen  ?  " 

"  Again,  in  all  sincerity,"  came  quietly  from  Sharum's 

B.F.  S 


258  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

lips,  "  I  must  put  in  a  disclaimer  there.  I  am  not  respon- 
sible for  Captain  O'Hagan's  position." 

"  Then  who  is  ?  " 

"  That  is  not  for  me  to  say  even  had  I  the  necessary 
knowledge.  And,"  Sharum  suffered  indignation  to  creep 
in  here,  his  lips  drew  new  lines,  "  I  think,  if  you  will 
consider  the  matter  dispassionately,  you  will  acknow- 
ledge that  I  am  the  last — the  very  last — to  whom  you 
should  address  your  appeal." 

"  I  don't  agree  there ;  but  tell  me  your  version," 
Lucy  urged. 

"  Captain  O'Hagan  acted  very  badly  in  this  matter.  I 
am  not  alluding  to  the  loss  of  my  ship,  but  to  his  conduct 
at  the  Inquiry.  He  accused  us  of  sending  to  sea  a  vessel 
laden  so  that  she  was  unseaworlhy.  The  whole  argu- 
ment was  resolved  upon  that.  Unseaworthy.  That  is  a 
monstrous  and  libellous  accusation  to  make."  He  shook 
this  out  with  vigour.  It  seemed  to  oppress  him.  "  I 
have  no  words  strong  enough  to  condemn  such  action  on 
the  part  of  a  British  shipmaster." 

"  My  husband  tells  me  it  is  the  new  Act  which  makes 
ships  unseaworthy." 

•'  Very  well — let  him  fight  the  Act,"  Sharum  scoffed. 

"  How  can  he — you  know  that  only  a  rich  man  can 
fight  an  Act  of  Parliament.  .  .  .  Surely,  surely  you  have 
no  animosity  in  the  matter.  You  are  too  big  to  be  affected 
by  a  small  thing  like  this.  What  is  it  to  you  whether  my 
husband  is  at  work  or  at  play  ?  I  refuse  to  believe  you 
have  any  desire  to  harm  him.  It  is  impossible  ..." 

She  leaned  forward,  speaking  in  a  tense  whisper — 

"  And  remember  what  lies  behind.  I,  too,  am  hurt  if 
my  husband  is  unable  to  work.  You  see  that,  don't  you 
.  .  .  and  there  is  Baba.  Is  it  any  use  telling  you  what  it 
must  mean  to  all  of  us  if  we  are  driven  to  the  wall  ?  Oh  ! 
I  don't  believe  you  have  seen  it  from  this  point  of  view, 
I  can't — or  you  would  never  tell  me  he  must  fight  an  Act 
of  Parliament.  He  can't  fight  it  1  " 

"  Then  he  should  leave  it  alone,"  came  bluntly  in 
comment  on  this.  "  If  ships  are  made  unseaworthy  by 
the  new  Rule  he  is  under  no  compulsion  to  sail  in  them." 

Lucy  shrank  back  in  her  chair.  Sharum's  antagonism 
had  become  plainer  with  his  defence.  She  felt  that  it  was 
useless  to  continue  argument  with  one  who  fenced  in  this 
fashion.  Useless  to  plead,  use  ess  to  beg.  She  would 


PETER  WITTERSPOON  259 

be  compelled  to  strike.  She  had  come  there  prepared, 
if  necessary,  to  call  on  Witterspoon  for  aid  ;  but  still  she 
hesitated.  She  scarcely  knew  why.  With  a  sudden 
spring  of  impatience  she  said — 

"  You  accused  my  husband  of  drunkenness.  ..." 

"  And  if  we  did,  was  it  not  true  ?  " 

"  It  was  false,  and  you  knew  it." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  seem  impolite,"  Sharum  hit  back.  "  We 
acted  on  information  supplied  by  our  agents." 

"  It  was  false.  Your  witnesses  were  paid  to  say  what 
they  said.  .  .  ." 

Sharum  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  tapping  the  table 
irritably.  "  Do  you  accuse  me  of  wilfully  bringing  a  bogus 
charge  against  your  husband  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  That  is  a  question  I  leave  to  your  conscience — if  you 
have  one,"  Lucy  retorted.  But  at  the  back  of  her  mind 
she  knew  that  she  was  losing  .  .  .  that  she  would  be 
compelled  to  call  for  help. 

"  I  suppose  " — she  moved  tangentwise  here,  with  the 
calm  intensity  of  a  woman  stung  to  her  soul  by  the  fact 
that  she  had  pleaded  without  effect ;  pleaded,  and  had 
her  words  flung  back  at  her — "  I  suppose  you  consider 
yourself  a  business  man  ?  " 

Sharum  refused  to  be  drawn  in  this  fashion.  He  sat 
there  ill  at  ease,  hectored,  as  he  put  it,  by  a  woman,  the 
wife  of  one  of  his  ex-skippers  if  you  please,  who  it  seemed 
said  enough,  or  not  enough,  he  scarcely  knew  which,  to 
warrant  an  action  for  libel.  And  yet — at  whose  cost  ? 
He  stamped  and  remained  silent. 

"  I  am  thankful  I  know  very  little,"  Lucy  resumed, 
"  but  I  am  told  that  people  who  persuade  their  eaptains 
to  invest  money  in  vessels  which  are  mortgaged  to  the 
hilt,  without  advising  them  they  are  mortgaged,  are 
running  the  risk  of  being  charged  with  malfeasance."  She 
repeated,  looking  down  on  the  sallow  face  of  this  personage 
who  had  the  ordering  of  hundreds  in  his  hands,  "  Mal- 
feasance is  a  criminal  offence.  I  heard  it  applied  to  your 
methods  and  I  looked  it  up." 

Sharum  scarcely  moved,  although  he  bowed  before  her 
strength.  He  would  have  liked  to  say — "  What  in  the 
world  do  you  know  about  criminal  law,  little  witch  ?  " 
but  produced  this  phrase  instead — "  If  Captain  O'Hagan 
considers  himself  aggrieved  in  that  matter,  his  remedy  is 
plain." 

S  2 


260  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  You  know  your  company  was  bankrupt  when  you 
invited  him  to  invest." 

"  I  offered  him  command  on  certain  terms  which  he 
accepted,"  Sharum  explained. 

"  You  took  five  hundred  pounds  out  of  his  pocket  and 
then  turned  him  adrift,"  Lucy  tossed  back. 

Sharum  rose  to  end  this. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  nothing  is  to  be  gained  by 
recrimination.  If  your  husband  .  .  ." 

"  You  attacked  Captain  O'Hagan,"  Lucy  challenged  at 
once,  her  words  ringing  in  the  still  room.  "  You  sneered 
at  the  terrible  position  in  which  he  finds  himself.  You  ..." 

Sharum  lifted  his  hand  and  his  voice  together. 

"  Pray  do  not  excite  yourself,"  he  urged,  his  one  aim 
now  the  pacification  of  this  outspoken  young  woman  who 
showered  charges  on  a  nature  which  never  would  respond 
to  passion  ;  which  would  remain  cold,  polished  as  the 
staid  old  furniture  with  which  he  was  surrounded,  calm 
as  the  engravings  on  his  walls. 

"  Excite  myself  !  "  Lucy's  mocking  laugh  rang  out. 
She  was  very  able  to  protect  herself,  very  flexile,  bright, 
strong  ;  but  she  knew  that  she  must  call  in  help.  Obey 
her  aunt.  Ask  someone  else  to  hammer  in  her  arguments. 
"  One  does  not  allow  excitement  to  interfere,"  she  said. 
"  Perhaps  you  prefer  that  I  should  see  Mr.  Witterspoon  ?  " 

She  watched  closely  as  she  fired  this  charge ;  but 
Sharum,  in  spite  of  his  astonishment,  gave  no  sign  that  he 
felt,  feared  or  hesitated.  At  once  he  answered — 

"  If  you  think  Mr.  Witterspoon  can  give  you  a  more 
patient  hearing  than  I  have  done  I  will  ask  him  to  meet 
you  here." 

As  Sharum  played  that  shot  he  saw  Lucy  in  his  mind's 
eye  go  down  before  him.  He  supposed  she  had  learned 
of  the  connection  which  existed  between  Sharum  and  the 
dandy  financier  ;  not  that  she  knew  him — and  as  a  matter 
of  fact  strove  to  outplay  his  antagonist  as  he  would  a  man. 
But  Sharum  had  been  so  fully  occupied  while  climbing 
the  ladder  of  commerce  that  he  had  not  found  time  to 
study  that  new  force  which  was  climbing  beside  him — 
the  modern  woman.  He  was  aware  of  course,  in  a  remote 
way,  that  the  force  had  arrived  ;  but  he  had  no  knowledge 
of  the  girl  organizer  who,  under  a  delightful  naivete, 
conceals  knowledge  wide  and  vigorous  as  a  man,  and  with 
wonderful  insight  speaks  and  acts  upon  it. 


PETER  WITTERSPOON  261 

"  Thanks,"  said  this  audacity,  "  don't  bother.  I 
wrote  for  an  appointment.  Mr.  Witterspoon  will  meet 
me." 

Sharum,  more  sallow  than  before,  questioned — 
"  Where  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  said  here,"  Lucy  smiled,  then  added, 
"  if  it  is  convenient  to  you." 

"  Pray  do  not  consider  that,"  Sharum  bowed.  "  My 
ignorance  prompted  the  question.  I  was  not  aware  you 
knew  Mr.  Witterspoon." 

In  his  mind  as  he  rose  and  left  the  room,  he  anathema- 
tised this  mixing  up  of  persons  and  causes  in  one  bowl. 
O'Hagan,  Witterspoon,  Madame,  the  lost  Sphinx,  the 
Black  List — himself.  Good  heavens  !  And  this  the 
result  of  half  an  hour's  interview  with  a  woman  !  He 
was  angry.  He  would  in  future  face  a  scene  even  in  the 
vestibule  rather  than  an  interview.  He  damned  the 
bronzed  warrior  who  saluted  him,  called  for  his  secretary 
and  returned. 

He  had  made  this  small  pilgrimage  solely  to  cover  his 
annoyance.  He  was  angry  in  the  still,  deadly  fashion  of 
his  kind  when  he  came  back.  And  there  stood  Lucy 
examining  the  engraving  which  Witterspoon  had  admired. 
She  made  no  excuse  but  presently  caught  sight  of  a  piece 
of  Delft  which  might  have  given  her  a  hint  of  the  leanings 
of  this  man  with  the  sallow,  broad  brow  who  ruled  here. 
But  the  matter  which  occupied  Lucy  lay  in  the  field  of 
anticipation.  She  had  not  seen  Peter  Witterspoon  for  a 
long  time.  Years,  she  decided,  when  she  considered  it — 
years  !  She  did  not  know  what  Mrs.  Faulkner  had  said 
to  him,  only  that  he  was  connected  with  Sharum  and 
should  be  seen.  She  had  formed  no  plan,  but  moved  in 
the  dark  very  much  as  a  novice  moves  pieces  in  chess. 
She  knew  that  it  was  the  only  means  she  had  of  trying  to 
help  Den,  of  showing  him  that  after  all  marriage  was  not 
entirely  a  handicap. 

The  silence  was  complete,  yet  Lucy  gathered  "  that 
man  "  had  returned  and  wondered  what  he  was  doing. 
She  did  not  know  that  the  clerk  who  accompanied  him 
was  the  same  as  he  who  had  appeared  at  the  beginning 
of  this  interview.  She  did  not  know  that  at  this  moment 
he  was  transcribing  the  shorthand  report  of  every  sen- 
tence that  had  been  spoken — and,  had  she  known  it  she 
would  have  smiled. 


262  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

What  a  deadly  silence !  The  still  malignity  of  it 
appalled  her.  It  was  the  mise  en  scene  demanded  by 
plotters — not  even  a  clock-tick  to  disturb  them.  She 
wondered  what  "  that  man  "  was  doing.  She  could  not 
see.  The  room  held  no  mirrors.  It  was  horrid  standing 
in  that  fashion  at  all  events,  and  the  man  would  be 
criticising  the  hang  of  her  gown.  Hateful !  She  shivered 
with  the  notion,  and  the  eyes  of  those  two  pierced  her 
through.  She  was  on  the  verge  of  panic — for  no  reason, 
she  told  herself.  Yet  it  was  there.  She  wanted  to  scream 
.  .  .  for  the  first  time  in  the  course  of  that  interview  she 
felt  dizzy,  unable  to  stand  still,  unable  to  control  her 
limbs.  Then,  as  though  "  that  man  "  had  diagnosed  her 
condition,  she  heard  a  voice  saying  very  calmly — 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  " 

Sit  down  !  She  desired  to  hurl  the  words  back,  to  treat 
them  with  scorn — and  yet,  for  some  unknown  reason  her 
lips  formed  acquiescence — "  Oh,  thanks  very  much.  Do 
you  think  Mr.  Witterspoon  will  be  very  long  ?  " 

"  I  expect  him  every  minute,  and  have  left  word  for  him 
to  come  here,"  Sharum  replied. 

With  that  Lucy  accepted  the  inevitable,  turned  and  sat 
once  more,  gaining  strength  with  the  effort.  She  saw 
the  room  less  dizzily ;  saw  the  clerk  advance  to  offer  her 
a  newspaper  ...  as  though  she  desired  to  read ;  as 
though  she  could  command  her  pulses  sufficiently  to 
examine  one  line.  .  .  .  Still,  she  took  it  from  him,  said 
thank  you,  and  presently  became  absorbed  in  a  paragraph, 
marked  in  double  lines  by  a  blue  pencil,  which  stated — 

"  Casa  Blanca.  May  20th  for  Valparaiso.  Boat 
found  in  50°  45'  S.  66°  50'  W.  50  guineas." 

A  message  from  the  sea  lay  to  her  hand.  A  message 
from  Jimmy  Barlow  .  .  .  Jimmy — had  Den  seen  this  ? 
What  did  it  mean  ? 

She  moved  softly  considering  it. 

It  was  the  only  passage  marked  on  that  page.  Why 
was  it  marked  ?  A  shivering  touch,  cold,  indefinite,  ran 
down  her  spine.  Had  they  given  her  this  thing  to 
frighten  her  ?  What  did  it  mean  ?  She  leaned  forward 
striving  to  pierce  the  distance,  and  saw  Jimmy  Barlow 
as  he  sat  pretending  to  make  merry  in  the  Strathmuir' 's 
cabin.  She  remembered  Den  had  told  her  of  a  dream  .  .  . 
What  boat  had  been  found  ?  Why  was  it  found  .  .  . 
and,  and  what  of  Jimmy  Barlow  ? 


PETER  WITTERSPOON  263 

With  puzzled  brain  and  troubled  eyes  she  searched  the 
paper  and  found  a  heading  which  offered — "  Reinsurance 
Rates,"  as  an  index.  Nothing  more  illuminative.  Why 
had  they  given  it  to  her  to  read  ? — "  Was  Jimmy  Barlow 
lost  ?  " 

The  words  fell  in  a  whisper  which  no  one  heard.  She 
saw  those  two  bending  over  a  task,  silent,  like  the  dead. 
She  wanted  to  cry  out,  to  ask  someone — but  her  lips 
remained  closed.  They  seemed  dry.  She  moistened 
them  with  her  tongue  and  again  that  shivering  touch  ran 
down  her  spine.  She  was  cold  and  hot  in  a  breath.  Cold 
and  hot — the  room  a  tomb,  soundless,  void,  but  for  those 
two  scribbling,  like  people  bereft  of  speech. 

The  strain  of  this  meeting  had  been  terrible,  but  the 
silence  appalled.  She  lifted  her  hand,  pushed  back  her 
veil,  and  found  voice  with — 

"  What  does  this  mean  .  .  .  why  don't  you  answer 
me  ?  "  pointing  tragically  at  the  paper  .  .  .  then  the 
door  opened.  Heaven  opened  and  Peter  Witterspoon 
came  in  with  a  clang.  He  tossed  aside  hat,  gloves,  stick, 
and  advanced  holding  out  both  hands — Oh  !  he  was  good 
to  look  upon. 

"  You  here  first !  I  thought  I  should  never  see  you 
again  !  Jove  !  what  luck  !  And  I've  kept  you.  .  .  . 
Been  wondering  what  in  the  world  had  become  of  you 
ever  since  Simla.  .  .  ." 

He  caught  her  hands — "  You  ran  away  then  !  "  he 
laughed  and  approached  so  near  that  it  seemed  that  he 
intended  to  kiss  her  cheek ;  but  Lucy  swerved  and  he 
transferred  the  attention  to  her  hands.  He  pressed  them 
to  his  lips,  then  looked  up — oh  !  it  was  good  to  remember. 

Lucy  stood  flushed  and  in  trouble  ;  but  he  did  not  see. 

"  How  in  the  world  did  you  get  to  know  I  was  here  ?  " 
He  cried  out,  "  Sharum  !  " — he  jerked  back  seeking  by  a 
gesture  to  draw  him  near — "  This  is  Miss  Faulkner  .  .  . 
I  met  her  in  India  ...  wish  to  heaven  we  were  there 
now."  He  was  alternately  lifting  and  letting  fall  Lucy's 
hands  as  he  rattled  on,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  her  eyes 
filled.  She  tried  to  cry  out ;  but  no  words  were  evident 
— only  the  choked  utterance  of  one  on  the  edge  of  tears. 
"  Hallo !  "  said  Peter  Witterspoon,  "  anything 
wrong  ?  " 

Lucy  nodded,  her  eyes  dim. 

"  Take  me  home,"  she  whispered. 


264  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Now  ?  " 

"  At  once,  please." 

"  111  ?  " 

"  No — no  ;  but  I  must  get  away  from  here  immediately, 
and  —  "  she  faced  Sharum,  who  stood  annoyed  by  this 
turn  of  the  wheel. 

"  What  has  happened  to  the  Casa  Blanca  ? "  she 
demanded. 

"  As  far  as  one  can  say  at  the  moment,"  he  bowed, 
*'  she  is  missing." 

"  Missing — are  you  sure  ?  " 

Witterspoon  took  the  paper  she  held,  scanned  it  and 
turned  on  Sharum. 

"  What  in  the  world  did  you  show  her  that  f or  ?  "  he 
questioned  sharply. 

"  It  seemed  likely,"  Sharum  gave  back,  "  that  Mrs. 
O'Hagan  would  be  interested." 

"  Mrs.  O'Hagan  !  " 

Sharum  nodded. 

With  Lucy  on  his  arm  Witterspoon  moved  to  the  door. 


CHAPTER  II 

"  I   TRUSTED    YOU  " 

THIS  could  not  go  on.  And  yet,  if  Lucy  was  to  help 
Den  she  must  see  it  through,  twist  it  to  aid  her,  compel 
consideration.  Compel !  Even  as  she  passed  through 
the  vestibule  an  assurance  of  the  futility  of  this  fell  upon 
her.  Witterspoon  had  taken  possession  of  her.  By 
sheer  force  and  masculinity  he  stood  over  her  in  the 
manner  of  protector.  In  a  moment  of  panic  she  had 
asked  him  to  escort  her.  Now,  if  she  could  have  shaken 
him  off  without  injury  to  the  cause  she  had  marked  as 
essential,  she  would  have  done  so.  Impossible  !  She 
shook  her  head  over  it.  She  must  be  kind — walk,  as  her 
aunt  had  suggested,  with  promises  which  mean  nothing. 

That  brought  with  a  rush  of  contending  thoughts  the 
question — "  What  has  Aunt  Mary  said  to  this  man  that 
he  acted  with  such  warmth  ?  "  He  used  to  be,  what  is 
known  as  a  "  rather  decent  sort."  Their  relations  in 
India  had  been  of  a  mild  jocularity ;  nor  had  he  ever  led 
her  to  suppose  he  loved  her.  .  .  .  With  a  hot  flush  on 
cheek  and  brow  Lucy  stumbled  as  she  walked,  and 
instantly  recognised  the  pressure  of  his  protecting  arm. 

It  was  dark — but  lamps  which  made  light  the  way  they 
traversed  refused  altogether  to  pierce  the  gloom  which 
clouded  her.  Time  alone  would  do  that.  Time  the 
juggler  ! 

"  And  so,"  said  Peter  Witterspoon's  voice,  "  you  are 
Mrs.  O'Hagan  !  " 

'  Yes.    Didn't  you  know  ?  " 

'  What  is  he  ?  "  came  at  once,  pushing  away  her 
question. 

*  Captain "  she  halted  over  this. 

'  Army  ?  " 

'  Merchant  Service." 

'  The  O'Hagan  that  man  Sharum  was  telling  me  of  ? 
No  !  "  The  negative  came  with  a  rush  suggesting  the 
absurd. 


2G6  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  I  expect  so.  He — he  commanded  the  Sphinx  when 
she  was  lost,"  Lucy  faltered. 

Peter  Witterspoon's  arm  seemed  to  press  more  closely 
on  Lucy's  hand.  He  drew  a  long  breath.  It  was  as 
though  he  sighed. 

They  stood  at  last  in  the  gloom  of  Longman  Avenue. 
Beside  the  curb  one  of  the  new  racing  cars  throbbed  with 
an  energy  which  refused  sleep.  Lucy  saw  it  with  a  gasp 
of  delight. 

'  Not  yours  ?  "   she  whispered. 

'  Every  inch  of  her.     Jump  in." 

'  Why?  "  she  drew  back,  uncertain. 

'  I  am  going  to  take  you  home,"  he  returned. 

*  You  can't — in  that,"  she  objected.     "  It's — it's  down 
in  the  East  End.  .  .  ." 
He  whistled  softly. 

"  Nevertheless,  I  shall  take  you,"  he  threw  back. 
"  You  asked.  I  promised.  Jump  in." 

She  desired  to  fight  this  ;  but  saw  the  commissionaire 
standing  there  holding  the  door  for  her  to  enter.  She 
could  not  argue  before  the  medals  of  an  Egyptian  cam- 
paign— besides,  Peter  Witterspoon  was  putting  on  gaunt- 
lets ready  for  the  road — She  took  the  seat  assigned  to  her, 
felt  the  warmth  of  that  magnificent  rug  which  had  lain  on 
the  commissionaire's  arm  and  lay  back  sighing.  It  w.  s 
glorious  to  surrender  entirely  to  this  beautiful  toy,  to  feel 
that  one  need  no  longer  bother,  that  soon  one  would  be  at 
home.  She  closed  her  eyes. 

And  presently  the  throb  increased.  She  felt  a  jerk  or 
two,  then  they  moved  down  the  shades  and  came  into  a 
wider  street  leading  towards  the  Bank.  Their  advent 
was  heralded  by  a  strange  horn  note,  a  sound  which  Lucy 
decided  at  once  was  like  the  cry  of  a  sick  elephant. 

Witterspoon  leaned  towards  her  as  they  came  to  a 
crossing. 

'  What  address  ?  "    he  asked. 

'  Forty-five,  Bearsted  Road,"  she  gave  in  response. 

'  WTiere  in  the  world  is  that  ?  " 

'East  End.    A  turning  off  East  India  Dock  Road.  .  .  ." 

'  Don't    know    it  1  "     Peter    Witterspoon    hummed ; 
"  don't  know  it  ...  let  it  go  cram  !  " 

They  slid  into  the  traffic  moving  west,  coughing  out 
strange  explosive  sounds  which  shook  the  car. 

"  No  silencer,"  Witterspoon  commented,  noting  in  the 


"I   TRUSTED   YOU"  267 

glare  of  a  lamp  her  air  of  strained  attention.  "  She's  a 
beauty  when  one  has  room,  or  on  a  racing  track.  No 
good  for  the  streets." 

"  Do  you  often  bring  her  into  the  City,  then  ?  " 

"  No.  .  .  .  Fact  is  I  was  on  my  way  to  Paris  when  I  got 
your  note.  Couldn't  change  at  the  last  minute.  Your 
aunt  told  me  you  would  write.  Paris  can  wait/' 

She  pushed  this  aside  as  they  halted  behind  a  constable's 
outstretched  arm  and  said — "  Do  you  go  very  much  to 
the  City  ?  " 

"  When  Sharum  can't  or  won't  use  the  telephone," 
he  said,  "  I  have  to  go." 
'  You  hate  it,  I  expect  ?  " 

"  It  pays,"  he  laughed.  "  Pays,  pays  .  .  .  what 
would  you  have  ?  " 

"  And  it  gives  you  influence,  a  thing  you  love,  Mr. 
Witterspoon,  if  I  know  anything  of  men." 

"  It  counts  sometimes,"  he  smiled,  looking  into  her  eyes. 

"  And  I  suppose  Mr.  Sharum  would  do  anything  you 
chose  to  ask  ?  '  she  pressed,  the  crux  of  her  excursion  to  the 
City  at  length  in  view. 

Witterspoon  shrugged  over  this — "  To  some  extent, 
perhaps.  Fact  is  I  don't  interfere  at  all.  ...  I  finance 
a  bit  and  keep  out  of  it." 

"  But  you  could  persuade  him  if  you  wished  to  do  so  ?  " 
she  insisted,  when  he  broke  in  with — 

"  If  I  can  be  of  the  smallest  service  to  Miss  Faulkner  .  .  . 
I  beg  your  pardon  ...  to  Mrs.  O  Hagan,  depend  upon 
it  I  will  do  all  I  know." 

"  But  it  will  only  be  indirectly  for  me.  .  .  ." 

"  Never  mind.     Tell  me.  .  .  ." 

"  I  want  you  to  help  my  husband,"  she  faltered  here. 
"  He  is  broken  .  .  .  we  are  all  broken  by  Mr.  Sharum's 
action  after  the  loss  of  the  Sphinx.  ..." 

Witterspoon  whistled  softly,  recalling  the  shipowner's 
denunciation  of  O'Hagan  and  all  he  stood  for.  Then  the 
constable  moved  from  before  them  giving  the  passing 
signal  and  the  car  leaped  on.  Without  glancing  in  her 
direction,  all  his  attention  concentrated  on  his  machine 
he  said — "  Tell  me  all  about  it  ...  I  will  see  what  can 
be  done.  That  do  ?  " 

She  nodded,  her  face  on  fire,  hope  racing  fast  in  her 
brain. 

"  I  hate  to  bother  people  with — with  our  affairs,"  she 


268  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

said  as  they  swerved  past  great  drays  standing  in  Cannon 
Street.  "  It  is  so  much  finer  to  fight  one's  own  battles — 
but  here,  you  see,  we  are  up  against  interests  too  big  for 
us  to  tackle  alone.  You  see,"  she  repeated,  striving 
to  be  very  clear,  "  at  the  trial  they  accused  Den — my 
husband,  you  know — of  drunkenness.  They  got  some  of 
the  crew  to  swear  to  it,  and  now  Den  has  been  put  on  the 
Black  List,  and  ..." 

"  Black  List  ?  "  Witterspoon  ejaculated.     "  Where  ?  " 

"  Lloyd's,  I  believe.  .  .  ." 

"  I  see.     Insurance  ...  go  on." 

"  The  result  is  Den  can't  get  a  ship  again — that  is,  as 
captain,  you  know — and  his  friends  advise  him  that  he 
must  quash  the  judgment  of  the  court  before  he  can 
persuade  Lloyd's  to  remove  his  name  from  this  Black  List 
of  theirs.  .  .  .  Oh !  I  can't  explain  it  a  bit.  I  make  a 
terrible  muddle  of  it  ...  but  if  you  will  get  Mr.  Sharum 
to  use  his  influence  to  take  away  this — this  bar,  we  shall 
be  able  to  get  on  ...  otherwise,  I  think,  we  shall  starve." 

"  Starve  ?  "  Witterspoon  repeated.  "  Good  gracious — 
you  can't  mean  that !  " 

"  I  do.     It  brings  us "     Lucy  stopped  as  the  car 

dipped  to  go  down  Ludgate  Hill,  and  the  railway  bridge 
which  spans  the  road  appeared  in  the  mist  before  them — 
"  Where  are  you  taking  me  ?  "  she  cried  out.  "  Surely 
we  have  passed  St.  Paul's  ...  we  are  going  West !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  questioned,  smiling  at  her  consterna- 
tion. 

"  But — but  I  trusted  you,"  she  exclaimed,  vehement 
at  this  jocularity.  "  Stop  the  car,  please.  Let  me  get 
down.  .  .  .  I — I  can  find  my  way  alone." 

"  You  can't,"  he  asserted.  "  In  an  hour  it  will  be  black 
as  my  hat.  If  you  insist,  I  will  take  you.  ..." 

"  Turn,"  she  pleaded,  her  eyes  soft. 

"  Very  well — at  the  bottom,"  he  grumbled.  "  I 
wanted  to  get  you  a  cup  of  tea  first- — must  go  west  for  that," 
he  prevaricated. 

"  Take  me  home,  and  I  will  give  you  tea  there,"  she 
begged. 

"  It's  a  bargain,"  he  laughed,  unstirred  by  the  pathetic 
break  in  her  voice  ;  unstirred  indeed  by  any  consideration 
but  the  one.  And  that  Lucy  had  detected. 

Instinctively  she  knew  that  Peter  Witterspoon  was  not 
to  be  trusted.  Without  warning  or  premonition,  by  the 


I   TRUSTED   YOU"  209 

simple  test  of  a  few  minutes'  talk  she  recognised  what  in 
India  had  been  blurred,  perhaps,  obscured  by  the  larger 
conditions.  She  had  danced  with  him,  ridden  early  and 
late,  fallen  in  and  out  of  all  the  traps  provided  by  the 
cunning  of  dear  Aunt  Mary,  and  never  turned  a  hair. 
In  those  days  she  had  moved  more  or  less  passively  under 
Mrs.  Faulkner's  direction — she  supposed  she  would  have 
to  marry.  No  one  at  the  moment  seemed  clamorous 
for  her  favours.  She  queened  it  quite  regally  until 
O'Hagan  turned  up  for  a  brief  visit.  And  that  settled 
it.  Peter  Witterspoon,  who  never  had  a  chance  before, 
was  definitely  made  aware  of  it  now.  Aunt  Mary 
explained  that  it  was  his  own  fault,  laid  further  traps, 
failed,  and  told  Lucy  she  was^vexed. 

That  meant  a  great  deal  more  than  appeared.  When 
a  girl's  aunt  is  "  not  quite  old  "  and  "  very  smart,"  it  is 
easy  to  put  a  good  deal  of  feeling  into  "  vexed."  That 
was  one  of  the  reasons  why  Lucy  found  life  insupportable 
when  her  uncle  was  shelved.  Dear  Aunt  Mary  made 
it  plain  that  there  would  not  be  enough  to  go  round — and 
Denis  O'Hagan  came  into  his  own. 

And  now  Lucy  O'Hagan  was  journeying  through  the 
streets  of  East  London  in  Peter  Witterspoon's  car ; 
and  Denis  was  marching  home  through  the  fog,  cursing 
his  luck  and  Sharum  with  a  virility  which  remained 
unquenched. 

The  car  came  round  by  way  of  New  Bridge  Street  and 
Queen  Victoria  Street  to  the  Bank,  and  thence  at  the  direc- 
tion of  a  constable  into  Commercial  Road,  which  in  spite 
of  its  name  is  but  a  continuation  of  East  India  Dock  Road. 
They  came  slowly  and  almost  without  exchanging  a 
sentence,  for  the  traffic  was  heavy  and  the  fog  more  dense 
now  that  they  had  entered  the  eastern  shades. 

Peter  Witterspoon  exercised  his  sick  elephant  horn 
alternately  with  one  giving  a  deeper  note.  He  was 
engrossed  by  the  care  necessary  in  those  crowded  high- 
ways ;  silent  as  he  considered  this  problem  which  had  halted 
him  on  his  way  to  Paris  and  a  splash.  Yet,  when  presently 
they  crept  through  a  lane  of  costers'  barrows,  saw  the 
flares  and  heard  the  din  of  chaffering  he  showed  for  the 
first  time  a  touch  of  concern. 

Turning  slightly  to  Lucy  he  said—  '  You  don't  mean  to 
tell  me  you  live  anywhere  near  here  ?  " 

"  Next  big  turning  after  we've  crossed  the  bridge," 


270  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

she  replied  at  once.  Then  as  he  remained  silent  she  added 
— "  if  you  can  persuade  Mr.  Sharum  to  be  decent  we  can 
leave — otherwise  ..." 

"  You  can  leave  at  once,"  he  broke  in  hotly.  "  You 
have  only  to  say  the  word,  dear  lady." 

"  I  ?  " 

"  You.  I — I  have  more  money  than  I  can  use  .  .  ." 
he  began. 

"  No — no  !  "  she  checked.  "  That  would  never  do. 
Den  wouldn't  hear  of  it  ...  nor  could  I.  It  is  awfully 
good  of  you  to  think  of  it — but  .  .  .  Here  we  are,  left 
please  ...  a  little  way  up — five  doors  on  the  left  again." 

Witterspoon  made  no  comment  either  on  her  refusal 
or  on  the  street  they  entered.  It  was  wide,  a  tramway 
ran  through  it,  the  roar  of  carts  and  cabs  and  the  clang 
of  gongs  pervaded  it.  To  the  dandy  son  of  a  millionaire 
pill-maker  it  was  Hades.  The  smells  offended  him,  the 
noise  would  make  him  deaf.  Alone  he  would  never  have 
ventured  near  it ;  but  with  Lucy  beside  him  he  rose  to 
heights,  would  dare  odds,  would,  if  necessity  compelled, 
stand  and  fight  as  all  men  do  who  love  a  woman. 

He  said  in  his  throat  that  this  girl  would  have  been  his 
had  he  played  his  cards  better  in  India.  Mrs.  Faulkner 
had  given  him  chances,  Lucy  had  not  repelled.  There 
was  nothing  at  that  time  to  bar  the  way — now  there  was. 
Perhaps  that  was  the  reason  he  had  failed  in  India  and 
now  felt  keen,  as  he  termed  it.  At  all  events,  she  could 
not  pretend  to  love  for  ever  a  man  who  was  unable  to 
provide  for  her.  Then  his  chance  would  come — then  .  .  . 

He  alighted  from  the  car  and  ran  round  to  help  her. 
Their  hands  met  once  more,  and  the  blood  coursed  through 
his  veins.  It  was  dusk.  He  could  have  taken  her  in  his 
arms — but  he  dared  not.  With  some  women  it  would  have 
been  easy  enough  to  do  so.  With  others  the  main  diffi- 
culty would  have  been  to  hold  them  off,  for  he  had  a  name 
for  irresistibility,  which  some  find  "  charming."  But 
with  Lucy,  all  this  was  impossible — quite,  quite  impos- 
sible. He  recognised  that  it  would  frighten  her.  Her 
refusal  of  all  help  ;  the  phrase  she  had  flung  at  him  when 
he  would  have  carried  her  West — "  I  trusted  you,"  told 
him  definitely  he  must  wait. 

Well — he  could  do  that. 

They  came  to  the  door,  which  Lucy  opened.  A  passage, 
narrow  and  sombre,  which  lay  before  them,  led  straight 


"I  TRUSTED  YOU"  271 

to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  which  towered  steeply  to  the  first 
floor.  They  mounted  together,  and  entered  a  room 
lighted  with  a  glare  of  unshaded  incandescence,  which 
made  Witterspoon  blink. 

He  said — "  Good  Lord  !  "  and  screened  his  eyes.  Lucy 
smiled,  and  crossed  to  join  a  small  maid  who  sat  near  the 
child's  cot. 

"  Baby  awake  ?  " 

"  No,  'em." 

Lucy  bent  down,  drawing  the  curtains,  peeping  ;  and 
Peter  Witterspoon,  who  had  followed,  leaned  forward, 
too. 

"  Yours  ?  "  he  whispered,  amazed  at  the  thrill  which 
flooded  him. 

"  Yes— isn't  he  beautiful  ?  " 

"  A  boy,  eh  ?  " 

Witterspoon  leaned  nearer,  and  the  child  stretched  out 
his  arms,  beginning  to  fret. 

"  Great  Scot !  "  he  added  again,  "  why — he's  going  to 
cry  !  " 

He  marched  to  the  window,  consulted  his  watch,  and 
came  back.  Lucy  was  rocking  slightly  with  her  foot 
on  the  cot. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  I  had  better  not  trouble  you 
for  that  cup  of  tea,  Mrs.  O'Hagan.  I'm  afraid  you  are 
going  to  be  kept  busy — and  I  can't  leave  the  car  very  well 
in  this  fog.  Perhaps  I  may  come  again  ?  Some  fine  day, 
so  that  you  may  redeem  your  promise  ?  .  .  .  I  wish  you 
would  let  me  .  .  ."  he  added,  watching  her. 

She  glanced  over,  smiling — "  Come  earlier,  then. 
Baby  rather  monopolises  me  just  at  this  time.  At  four 
o'clock — on  any  day.  .  .  .  I  am  always  at  home,  you  see." 

To  the  tip  of  his  tongue  leaped  the  phrase — "  You  poor 
dear  !  "  but  he  held  it  back  and  said  instead,  "  Thanks,  so 
much.  I'll  bring  a  car — a  quieter  one — and  give  you  and 
the  kiddie  a  run  ?  " 

Lucy  signalled  his  dismissal.  "  Good-night,"  she  said. 
"  Yes — perhaps  we  shall  be  able  to  come." 

He  acknowledged  her  command,  and  passed  away  down 
stairs.  The  maid  crossed  over  to  watch  from  a  window 
which  gave  upon  the  street. 

"  'E's  put  on  'is  lights,  'em,"  she  reported,  staring 
round-eyed  through  the  glass,  "  all  four  of  'em  together, 
'em  .  .  and — and  now  'e's  turnin'  a  nandle.  .  .  ." 


272  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Run  away  and  get  baby's  bath  for  me,  then  ask  Mrs. 
Shandon  to  send  me  up  a  cup  of  tea  as  soon  as  possible," 
Lucy  demanded. 

The  car  grumbled,  and  presently  jerked  away  from 
before  No.  45  as  the  maid  moved  to  obey ;  but  Lucy 
heard  its  voice,  crying  on  the  sick  elephant  horn — 

"  Fool — Fool.  .  .  .  This  is  my  day — my  day — my 
day.  .  .  ." 

That  night  Peter  Witterspoon  posted  a  fifty  pound  note 
to  Lucy  without  giving  any  clue  to  the  sender's  identity, 
and  two  days  later  found,  when  he  came  in  to  breakfast, 
that  she  had  returned  it.  In  the  note  which  accompanied 
it  Lucy  thanked  him  and  prayed  him  to  use  his  influence 
with  Sharum. 

Nothing  more. 


CHAPTER  III 

NO.    45,    BEARSTED    ROAD 

THE  O'Hagans  "  were  staying,"  as  Aunt  Mary  phrased 
it,  in  Bearsted  Road,  not  to  perfect  themselves  in  the 
fashionable  art  of  slumming,  nor  to  write  a  novel ;  but 
because  they  must.  They  arrived  in  London  on  the 
twenty-first  day  of  December,  and  on  the  twenty-second 
O'Hagan  was  once  more  without  visible  means  of  employ- 
ment. They  spent  Christmas  Day  at  No.  45  and  found  it 
sad.  They  liked  it  less  now  that  the  spring  was  come, 
and  it  was  hot  and  breathless  to  boot. 

Baba  recognised  that  he  hated  it.  Lucy  and  Denis 
noted  the  change  in  him,  watched  and  blamed  the  milk. 
They  said  it  was  chalk  and  water,  and  a  neighbouring 
Samaritan  sent  in  half  a  tin  of  "  condensed,"  on  which 
she  said  she  had  reared  ten.  She  did  not  explain  the 
miracle,  but  Denis  carried  what  remained  to  the  docks  and 
dropped  it  in  Tidal  Basin.  From  thence  it  is  easy  to 
suppose  it  reached  the  Milky  Way,  which  is  one  of  the 
titles  unjustly  bestowed  on  London's  river. 

Nor  had  the  O'Hagans  come  to  Bearsted  Road  for 
amusement,  but  because  it  was  near  the  docks  and  not 
too  far  from  town.  And  now,  in  April,  although  their 
dear  home  in  Riverton  was  vacant  and  Baba  asked  plainly 
for  the  country  air  he  knew,  they  remained  because  Den's 
case  was  not  yet  won,  and  it  was  impossible  to  consider 
the  expense  of  housekeeping. 

At  no  time  had  Lucy  doubted  Den's  capacity  to  win  in 
the  end  ;  but  rather  the  effect  of  the  strain  it  would  entail 
on  their  slender  resources  and  on  themselves.  It  was 
impossible  to  hide  these  two  factors.  Logic  told  her 
plainly  that  you  cannot  fight  lawsuits  on  an  income  of 
seventy-five  pounds.  Den  had  sold  some  of  his  Argentine 
Railways ;  obviously,  therefore,  the  income  was  already 
lessened.  That  is  why  she  agreed  to  her  aunt's  sugges- 
tion that  she  should  see  Sharum  and,  if  necessary,  Peter 
Witterspoon  as  well.  She  had  done  both.  With  Sharum 

B.F  T 


274  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

she  had  made  no  impression  at  all ;  with  Peter,  only  a 
revival,  as  far  as  she  could  analyse  a  man's  feeling,  of  the 
rather  silly  flirtation  which  happened  in  India.  She  still 
dreamed  of  success  in  spite  of  failure  ;  still  felt  sure  Den 
would  win  through  ;  still  argued  in  that  sane  head  she 
held  so  high,  that  no  man  could  be  brutal  enough  to  attempt 
to  keep  Den  out  now  that  it  was  understood  that  such  an 
attitude  meant  starvation. 

That  is  because  she  was  young  and,  in  spite  of  much 
buffeting,  in  love  with  her  husband. 

Lucy,  daughter  of  Major  Faulkner,  had  a  great  deal  to 
learn.  She  was  ignorant  of  the  real  position  of  that 
Bottle-filler  she  had  married.  She  knew  nothing  of  the 
law,  nor  of  the  Plaster  Saint  whom  Jimmy  Barlow 
arraigned.  She  believed  the  People  controlled  all  Govern- 
ment, all  officials,  even  that  wayward  assembly  known 
as  the  House  of  Commons  .  .  .  and  if  you  can  believe  that, 
it  is  plain  you  may  also  pin  your  faith  to  a  miracle. 

It  was  close,  stuffy,  airless  in  the  dull  room  on  this  May 
day  of  balmy  spring — and  Lucy  was  engaged  in  ironing. 
There  had  been  days  when  she  was  unaware  of  things 
called  irons  ;  but  Baba  had  taught  her.  And  now  in  his 
cot  in  the  adjoining  room,  he  refused  to  sleep. 

Lucy  put  up  her  hands  to  press  back  her  hair.  She 
was  hot ;  but  she  sang  cheerily  of  "  Owlets  three,  t'whit 
t'whec,"  and  the  boy  ceased  to  struggle.  But  you  cannot 
continue  for  ever  to  sing  about  naughty  owls  while  you  are 
ironing.  It  may  end  in  burning  your  fingers,  or  a  gar- 
ment. Therefore  Lucy  ceased  ;  Baba  discovered  silence, 
and  filled  it.  Then,  in  the  midst  of  a  noise  which  threatened 
her  ears,  the  boy  shouting  himself  black  in  the  face,  the 
roar  of  traffic,  the  terror  of  it  all  at  its  meridian,  to  visit 
Lucy  and  gain  impressions  came  Aunt  Mary  1 

Eheu  fugaces  ! 

Mrs.  Faulkner  was  a  dear  old  thing  and  knew  how  to 
dress  ;  but  Lucy  wished  her  in  Boscombe  at  this  moment. 
She  was  bending  over  some  heating  arrangement,  and  hot 
to  the  verge  of  misery,  tired  and  "  not  even  dressed,"  the 
boy  lay  flat  under  his  net,  expostulating  with  the  knots 
which  hurt  his  head,  when  the  marchioness  of  the 
establishment,  a  forlorn  personage  with  a  permanent 
smut  on  her  cheek,  opened  the  door  and  said — "  Hif  you 
please  'em,  a  lidy  would  like  to  see  you." 


No.   45,   BEARSTED   ROAD  275 

The  address  suggested  a  discreet  halt  somewhere  in 
the  passage  ;  but  the  "  lidy  "  advanced,  swathed,  if  that 
be  the  commonplace  for  so  wonderful  a  creation,  in  crepe- 
de-something,  soft  and  clingy  without  stiffening  or 
embarrassments  of  any  kind  in  steel  or  wood.  The  eyes 
of  the  marchioness  took  her  in,  dwelt  on  her,  discovered 
her.  They  expressed  wonder,  then  disdain,  tempered 
with  smiles,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  the  "  lidy  "  passed  in 
and  the  marchioness  passed  out,  sucking  in  her  breath. 

"  You  poor  dear  !  "  said  Aunt  Mary  as  she  advanced 
with  a  rustle  and  the  scent  of  violets.  "  Mayn't  I  unchain 
him  ?  "  She  entered  the  bedroom. 

Lucy  signalled  advice — "  Not  in  that  frock.  He  might 
spoil  it." 

Aunt  Mary  peered  over,  acknowledging  the  possibility. 
"Poor  old  boy!"  she  cooed.  "Wouldn't  Mamie  let 
you  det  up  ?  "  She  nodded  over  the  cot  shaking  the  tall 
feather  which  crowned  her.  This  produced  so  pronounced 
a  despair  that  Aunt  Mary  decided  to  retreat. 

"  Teeth  ?  "  she  questioned,  looking  up  at  Lucy  from 
the  doorway. 

"  And  the  heat — he  doesn't  like  London — do  you, 
sonny  boy  ?  " 

Sonny  boy  bellowed  his  hatred  and  Aunt  Mary  crossed 
to  the  window.  She  began  to  dread  a  headache,  but 
obviously  the  dear  girl  was  tired  to  death,  and  the  poverty 
was  extreme. 

Of  course  the  storm  ended,  as  they  always  do,  by  sur- 
render of  authority.  Baba  saw  the  net  unfastened,  felt 
himself  lifted  from  prison,  and  at  once  found  London  not 
so  bad,  even  in  Bearsted  Road.  With  the  help  of  Lucy's 
finger  he  marched  to  see  his  visitor,  stared  at  the  plume 
and  turned  to  his  toys. 

"  It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  look  us  up,"  Lucy  remarked 
in  the  new  silence.  "  Do  find  a  comfy  chair  somewhere." 

Aunt  Mary  surveyed  the  specimens,  chose  one  and  sat 
carefully.  She  seemed  to  say,  this  is  a  lodging-house 
chair,  one  must  be  careful  always — that  is  de  rigueur — 
but  in  Bearsted  Road,  E.,  it  is  wise  to  accentuate  the  fact. 

Of  course  she  had  no  intention  of  being  unkind.  These 
things  simply  happened.  They  rather  pointed  to  the 
fact  that  she  found  herself  in  surroundings  that  bored. 

"  I  haven't  seen  anything  of  you  for  such  an  age,"  she 
complained,  opening  a  fan  and  using  it  with  a  lazy  swing. 


276  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  It  seems  centuries  since  you  were  married,  for  of  course 
that  tiny  visit  I  paid  you  at  your  dear  little  home  hardly 
counts,  does  it  ? — and  since  then  you  have  been  more  than 
half  way  round  the  world.     How  time  does  fly  !  " 
"  It  does,  rather." 

Lucy  was  considering  certain  elegant  trifles  in  her 
aunt's  equipment  which  reminded  her  that  shops  existed 
somewhere  farther  west  which  knew  their  business.  She 
wondered,  too,  how  it  happened  that  Aunt  Mary  could 
manage  it,  and  with  an  oblique  throw  asked — 

"  By  the  way,  you  never  told  me  about  the  golf  club. 
Did  it  come  off  all  right  ?  " 

"  Poor  dear  Charlie  !  "  Aunt  Mary  commented.  "  No 
— but  he  is  engrossed  in  its  possibilities.  He  is  quite 
assured  it  will  make  his  fortune  when  it  is  known.  He 
says  it  will  mean  a  motor  presently — and  then  he  will 
be  able  to  ride  over  to  the  links  without  the  fatigue  of 
cycling.  Dear  man  !  " 

"  He  always  was  a  dreamer,"  Lucy  smiled. 
"  If  you  aren't  a  dreamer  after  fifteen  years  of  India 
and  War  Office  Regulations,  then  you  haven't  learned 
your  lesson,"  came  crisply  from  the  lips  of  Aunt  Mary  to 
correct  her. 

"  What  is  it  now — sashes  or  belts  ?  "  Lucy  questioned. 
"  Encumbrances,"  said  Aunt  Mary. 
"  Oh !      that's    old.       Lucky    for    you    you    aren't 
bothered.  .  .  ." 

"  I  took  care  of  that,"  Mrs.  Faulkner  announced.  "  It 
is  a  mistake  to  be  born  at  all  in  these  days ;  but  to  be 
born  without  money  is  sheer  criminality." 

Lucy  glanced  over  at  her  mistake,  and  found  him  a 
picture.  He  was  interested  at  the  moment  in  building 
a  tower.  She  had  no  comment  to  make,  but  she  kicked 
out  the  hem  of  her  dress  and  smiled. 

"  You  can't  pretend  you  are  glad  to  have  him,"  Aunt 
Mary  ejaculated,  nodding,  the  fan  puffing  hot  air  through 
her  veil. 

"  I  never  pretend,  dear,"  Lucy  cooed. 
"  If  only  we  weren't  so  desperately  hard  up  !  "  came  in 
exclamatory  fashion  from  Aunt  Mary's  lips  ;   and  there  it 
ended  abruptly  as  it  began. 

Lucy  smiled.  She  had  a  very  distinct  recollection  of 
her  uncle's  establishment  at  Boscombe,  and,  if  further 
evidence  were  required,  there  sat  her  aunt. 


No.  45,   BEARSTED   ROAD  277 

Mrs.  Faulkner  perhaps  followed  her,  for  she  suddenly 
asked—"  Where  is  Denis  ?  " 

"  In  town,  auntie — I  thought  I  made  that  clear." 

The  bells  of  St.  Mathias  chimed  a  quarter  of  sorts,  and 
Baba  looked  up  from  his  toys.  He  began  to  work  the 
protest  of  all  young  things. 

"  He  hates  those  bells,  simply  hates  them,"  Lucy 
explained,  as  she  strove  to  soothe  him. 

"  How  uncanny !  "  decided  Aunt  Mary  with  the 
acerbity  of  one  thoroughly  uncomfortable  and  thrown  out 
of  her  stride.  Lucy  appeared  happy — happy  amidst  this 
sordid  furniture,  amidst  this  ding-dong  blare  and  shocking 
taste.  How  could  she  be  happy  ?  That  skirt  she  wore 
was  sufficient  to  make  any  sane  woman  miserable.  It 
did  not  hang,  it  stood.  A  blouse,  too,  of  all  earthly 
discords,  at  something  or  other  to  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon !  A  kiddy  given  to  howling. 

Happy !  How  in  the  world  was  it  possible  ?  Aunt 
Mary  leaned  forward  attempting  with  her  starers  to  pierce 
the  veil. 

"  What  are  you  doing  with  a  child  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Trying  to  make  him  love  his  porridge,  dear,"  Lucy 
evaded. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Aunt  Mary  with  precise  articulation, 
"  what  right  had  you  to  bring  that  child  into  the  world  ?  " 

Lucy  glanced  round  with  heightened  colour. 

"  Judged  by  your  standard,"  she  said,  "  I  had  none." 

"  Of  course  you  hadn't.  And,"  she  complained,  "  that 
is  where  men  have  the  whip  hand  of  us,  when  we  are 
caught  young.  It  is  quite  sad.  A  girl  marries,  and  before 
she  knows  she  is  awake  there  is  a  child  at  her  breast ;  no 
money  in  the  house,  no  servants,  and  presently,  as  I  have 
seen,  no  husband.  ..." 

Baba  lifting  up  his  voice  by  stages  reached  here  the 
moment  when  it  becomes  necessary  to  do  something. 
Lucy  decided  to  pick  him  up  and  give  him  a  ride  on  her 
toe.  He  enjoyed  this  for  a  few  minutes,  then  again  took 
up  his  parable. 

"  It's  this  horrid  stuffiness,"  Lucy  announced  in  despair. 
"  What  is  the  use  of  talking  of  things  we  can't  alter. 
Baba's  here — very  much  here,  aren't  you,  pet  ?  "  she 
added,  bending  to  hug  him. 

"  Men  hate  children,"  Aunt  Mary  pronounced.  '  They 
hate  anything  that  interferes  with  their  comfort.  If  too 


278  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

many  babies  come  into  a  house — exit  peace,  dear  child  ; 
exit  everything  worth  having — even  the  man  who  begot 
them.  That's  human  nature.  I  wish  I  had  been  able 
to  warn  you  sooner  .  .  .  but  who  was  to  know  that  poor 
Denis  would  be  broken  in  a  year  ?  .  .  .  " 

A  train  of  bricks  dragged  by  a  spit-fire  monster  snorted 
past  and  Baba  decided  that  life  was  not  worth  living.  He 
yelled  as  vigorously  as  the  engine  panted.  He  kicked 
as  though  he  feared  the  trembling  motion  that  attacked 
the  house,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  Lucy  looked  over  and 
said  in  a  tired  voice — 

"  We  can't  talk  while  this  is  going  on.  Wait.  I  will 
try  to  get  him  to  sleep.  He  hasn't  had  a  wink  to-day." 

"  Poor  dear  girl !  Yes,  do.  Do  try,  by  all  means.  It's 
distracting.  I  wish  I  could  help  !  "  Aunt  Mary  jerked  out. 

And  with  that  Lucy  made  her  exit,  entered  the  adjoin- 
ing room,  and  with  a  voice  that  thrilled  began  to  sing  as 
she  walked  carrying  him — 

"  Over  the  ditch 
Slip,  little  witch — 
Off  to  rest  and  dreamland ; 
Carrying  dear  Teddy, 
Yellow-brown  Teddy, 
To  laugh  with  you  in  Cloudland. 

"  Over  the  sea 
Slip,  little  wee — 
Tired  of  flowers  in  Homeland  ; 
Holding  out  Teddy, 
Yellow-brown  Teddy, 
To  guide  you  up  in  Cloudland. 

"  Sleepily  sailing, 

Into  the  sky, 
Sailing  sleepily 

Up  on  high. 
Honey  boy's  nodding, 
Honey  boy's  plodding, 

Softly,  sleepily, 

Never  a  cry." 

Up  and  down  the  room,  down  and  up,  singing,  swinging, 
until  Baba  consented  to  rest,  soothed  by  dear  Mamie's 
touch.  His  eyes  closed  and  Lucy  stood  still.  She  began 
to  sing  again  in  a  great  hurry  as  the  bells  of  St.  Mathias 
c'anged  through  the  quarters.  He  opened  his  eyes  to  the 
boom  which  followed. 

Four  o'clock. 


No.   45,    BEARSTED   ROAD  279 

On  board  the  Strathmuir  he  laughed  at  the  bell  signals, 
in  London  he  resented  them. 
Again  Lucy  sang — 

"  Over  the  light 
Slip,  little  sprite, 
Quickly  away  to  Shadeland  ; 
Talking  to  Teddy, 
Yellow-brown  Teddy, 
Who  knows  the  way  in  Cloudland." 

And  into  the  refrain  she  wove  Denis'  name,  calling  to  him, 
praying  for  success. 

But  Denis  was  far  off,  far  as  success  and  as  difficult  to 
reach.  If  he  would  only  come  soon  and  give  the  lie  to  all 
these  stupid  assertions  of  Aunt  Mary's.  As  though  Den 
hated  babies  !  Some  men  might ;  but  not  dear,  kind, 
thoughtful  Den.  Lucy  hated  insinuations,  but  she  knew 
Aunt  Mary  did  not  intend  to  snub  her.  She  thought  it 
smart  to  talk  as  she  did.  Lucy  believed  she  would  have 
given  her  eyes  for  a  kiddy  years  ago,  and  when  that 
became  hopeless  this  sort  of  thing  resulted.  ...  Oh  ! 
if  Den  would  please  make  haste  home  ! 

Lucy's  voice  ceased,  she  forgot  to  sing  and  in  a  moment 
the  boy  looked  up  awake.  Then  again  came  the  soothing 
mother  touch  as  Lucy  surrendered  to  his  whim,  singing 
the  song  he  loved.  The  words  came  with  a  tremulous 
note  sad  to  consider.  Before  her  eyes  there  rose  a  picture 
of  the  future — their  very  precarious  future.  She  could 
not  push  it  away.  Perhaps  some  of  Aunt  Mary's  criti- 
cisms had  gone  home  ;  perhaps  the  knowledge  that  Uncle 
Charlie's  golf  club  had  not  come  off  and  that  he  in  conse- 
quence had  no  spare  bawbees  either  for  Aunt  Mary  or  his 
niece  troubled  her  ;  perhaps  it  was  just  the  way  in  which 
the  information  had  been  imparted  ;  perhaps  just  a  touch 
of  nostalgia  engendered  by  surroundings  which  were 
beyond  hope  for  one  not  brought  up  in  them. 

Lucy  sang  on,  her  voice  growing  softer,  more  faint ; 
her  eyes  luminous  as  they  watched  her  treasure,  seeking 
to  mesmerise  him.  Was  she  tired  ?  Oh,  yes.  Vexed  ? 
She  was  his  mother.  Sorrowful  ?  Perhaps.  Den  had 
such  horrid  luck,  such  horrid,  horrid  luck  ...  or,  was 
there  any  truth  in  Aunt  Mary's  suggestion  that  these  men 
intended  to  keep  him  out  ?  Perhaps  again.  Business 


280  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

people  were  mean  enough  for  anything,  "  keeping  their 
end  up  "  they  called  it — yes,  but  did  they  ? 

She  wondered  as  she  sang,  she  watched  as  she  sang — 
and  this  time  Baba  certainly  slept.  She  left  him  in  his 
cot,  drew  the  curtain  to  protect  him  from  flies  and  stood 
on  tip-toe  watching.  The  bells  of  St.  Mathias  clanged 
brazenly  those  terrible  quarters  we  all  know.  With 
monotonous  regularity,  day  and  night  they  hammered 
out  their  secret  warning.  "  Ding,  dong,  dang,  dong — 
dong,  dang,  ding,  dong."  Lucy  hovered  ready  to 
soothe.  Did  he  hear  ?  Would  he  wake  ?  Mercifully  he 
decided  to  sleep  and  presently  Lucy  was  free  to  see  her 
visitor. 

"  Dear  child  !  "  she  encountered  immediately  on  the 
threshold  of  the  next  room,  "  you  should  engage  a  maid." 
Mrs.  Faulkner's  fan  waved,  accentuating  the  point. 

"  Impossible  1  " 

*'  That  boy,"  said  Aunt  Mary,  who  had  never  dandled 
one  of  her  own,  "  is  too  heavy  for  you.  He  will  wear  you 
out." 

"  Better  to  wear  out  than  rust  out,"  Lucy  flung  back, 
restless  and  ruffled  in  the  still  deadliness  of  this  criticism. 

Aunt  Mary  refused  to  pursue  so  thorny  a  subject. 
With  pursed  lips  she  said — 

"  Well,  how  are  you  getting  on  with  Peter  Witterspoon  ? 
— he  promised  to  be  very  nice,  and ." 

"  He  has  kept  his  promise,"  Lucy  remarked. 

Aunt  Mary  searched  for  the  meaning  of  this  and  perhaps 
found  it.  She  said — "  But  has  he  taken  you  to  see  that 
man  ?  " 

"  That  man  "  was  Sharum,  who,  according  to  Aunt 
Mary,  was  the  God  of  the  Machine,  or  the  devil  of  it,  whom 
Denis  and  Lucy  must  propitiate. 

The  fan  swayed. 

"  I  went  without  him,"  said  Lucy,  and  as  swiftly  added, 
"  as  far  as  the  door,"  then  paused,  found  work  and  com- 
menced sewing. 

Mrs.  Faulkner  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  searching  out 
the  shabbiness  of  these  rooms  in  which  Lucy  and  Denis 
insisted  on  staying. 

"  I  didn't  advise  you  to  go  to  the  door,  dear,"  she 
complained,  "  but  to  see  the  man.  It  was  and  is  essential. " 

Lucy  sewed  on,  remembering  all  she  had  seen  and  con- 
sidered. 


No.  45,   BEARSTED  ROAD  '231 

"  Was  Peter  decent  ?  "   asked  the  lady  with  the  fan. 

"  I  don't  think  he  has  improved,"  said  Lucy. 

"  That  means  he  has  tried  to  make  love  to  you.  Dear 
little  girl !  " 

"  It  means  nothing  of  the  sort,"  Lucy  flared ;  then  with 
a  quick  turn,  "  What  did  you  tell  him  ?  What  did  you 
give  him  to  understand  when  you  wrote  ?  " 

Aunt  Mary  smiled  placidly,  archly,  which  did  not  suit 
her — 

"  I  said  you  were  as  pretty  as  before  you  were 
married.  .  .  ." 

"  Then  why  did  he  call  me  Miss  Faulkner  ?  " 

"  Did  he  ?  How  stupid  !  Men  have  a  way  of  for- 
getting a  woman's  name,  especially  when  they  don't 
wish  to  remember." 

"  Then  I  think  it  horrid  of  him,"  Lucy  decided  at  once. 
"  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  was  thinking  of  telling  him  not  to 
come  any  more.  It  is  so  easy  to  ...  to — oh,  well !  with 
some  men  it  isn't  quite  safe." 

Aunt  Mary's  fan  moved  quite  unfluttered  by  this. 
She  said  with  an  air  of  consideration — "  I  don't  think  that 
would  be  wise.  Denis  requires  help.  In  some  ways  a 
woman  can  do  so  much  for  her  husband.  She  need  not 
let  herself  go — but  she  has  finesse,  and  a  man  does  not 
know  what  the  word  means.  She  can  attract,  persuade — • 
a  man  can't  do  that.  Of  course,  I  mean  nicely.  When  a 
man  has  been  knocked  down  as  poor,  dear  Denis  has,  it 
is  his  wife's  duty  to  use  her  power,  every  means,  every 
art  at  her  disposal  to  help  him.  .  .  . 

"  Men — no  doubt  Peter  is  among  them — have  but  one 
idea  regarding  women.  If  she  happens  to  be  pretty  and 
young,  it  amounts  to  an  obsession" —  she  shrugged  over 
this.  "  Very  well.  Accept  it.  It  is  one  of  the  facts  of 
life.  And  make  use  of  it  to  serve  the  man  you  love.  .  .  . 
That  is  possible,  n'est-ce  pas  ?  " 

"  I  hate  it.  The  whole  idea  is  horrible.  .  .  .  I — I  wish 
I  had  not  taken  your  advice.  .  .  ." 

"  My  dear,"  the  elder  woman  begged,  "  pray  don't  act 
in  haste.  Play  your  cards  well  and  you  will  win.  Look 
at  the  position  of  this  boy" — Peter  Witterspoon  mas- 
queraded in  this  guise — "  his  wealth  and  his  influence  with 
that  man.  Oh  !  you  mus'rit  think  of  giving  it  up  ... 
because,  for  instance,  you  fear  Peter  may  fall  in  love  with 
you.  Tout  va  bien  !  That  also  is  an  affair  of  the  moment. 


282  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

Let  Peter  dream.  When  you  are  old,  my  dear,  he  will  not 
be  in  love  with  you.  Be  sure  of  that.  He  will  be  in  love 
with  someone  else — again  tout  va  Men  !  Meanwhile  let 
him  carry  your  gloves.  .  .  ." 

Lucy  looked  up  uneasily  from  her  work.  "  I  want  to 
help  Den,  of  course — but  suppose  he  should  hear  of  it 
before  I  am  able  to  tell  him  ?  " 

"  Impossible,  if  you  play  well." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  this  Sharum  man  ?  "  Lucy  asked, 
while  in  her  mind  she  questioned  the  wisdom  of  con- 
tinuing either  the  conversation  or  the  attempt. 

"  No,  dear,"  Mrs.  Faulkner  bridled,  "  but  I  think  if  I 
had  got  as  far  as  the  door  I  should  have  gone  inside." 

She  nodded  over  this,  appraising  the  reticence  she 
observed.  Lucy  had  always  been  so  outspoken,  so  ready 
with  confidences — but  now  !  Denis  O'Hagan,  no  doubt. 
Well,  one  could  not  marry  without  in  some  way  surrender- 
ing part  of  one's  individuality.  As  Lucy  remained  silent 
Mrs.  Faulkner  questioned  whether  it  would  be  wise  to 
touch  on  that  affair  of  the  interview  again.  Of  course 
she  recognised  it  had  taken  place.  Few  women  would 
require  any  assurance  on  that  head.  But  Lucy  remained 
provokingly  silent.  Her  fingers  moved  swiftly  over  her 
work,  her  hand  swinging  out  and  back  with  splendid 
regularity. 

Then  a  motor  charged  up  the  street  braying  of  its 
agility,  of  its  swooping  escapades  past  slower  vehicles,  of 
the  way  in  which  it  could  successfully  stampede  pedes- 
trians who  ventured  to  cross  the  road — and  that  sent  Lucy 
on  tiptoe  to  the  door. 

She  returned  assured,  flushed,  but  calm  as  the  child  she 
had  visited. 

"  And  this  is  so  wearying  for  you,"  said  Aunt  Mary 
with  her  gentlest  manner.  "  I  am  afraid  dear  Denis 
scarcely  understands  what  it  means  to  be  compelled  to 
see  to  a  child  of  that  age  both  day  and  night." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  does,"Lucy  answered, and  paused  to  thread 
a  needle.  "  He  takes  watch  and  watch  withme  if  necessary." 

"  Watch  and  watch  !  "  Aunt  Mary  echoed.  "  Poor 
dears  !  I'm  sure  you  are  in  difficulties." 

"  Well — of  course  we  aren't  as  flush  as  we  would  like  to 
be  ;  but  we  shall  peg  along  until  Denis  is  clear." 

"  I  can't  think  what  will  become  of  you,"  Aunt  Mary 
sighed. 


No.   45,   BEARSTED   ROAD  283 

"  Don't  try  to,"  Lucy  persuaded. 

"  My  dear  girl !  " 

"  I  mean  it,"  Lucy  asserted,  flushed  to  the  tips  of  her 
ears.  "  We  shall  peg  out  without  anybody's  help  .  .  . 
we  are  not  flush,  as  I  said;  but  you  need  not  have  the 
slightest  fear  of  our  writing  to  Uncle  Charlie  for  money. 
We  shall  not  add  to  his  difficulties  .  .  .  I  wish  his  club 
had  come  off,  of  course,  but  even  if  it  did,  neither  Denis 
nor  I  would  dream  of  sponging  on  him,  or  you  either,  dear, 
so  please  go  away  quite  at  peace.  .  .  ." 

"  Lucy  !  "  Mrs.  Faulkner  interrupted. 

"  No — I  won't  discuss  it,  auntie." 

"  Which,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  That  man,"  said  Lucy. 

The  fan  acknowledged  defeat.  Aunt  Mary  leaned  back 
in  her  chair,  her  voice  hipped  perhaps  more  than  she  was 
aware. 

"  You  were  made  for  a  rich  man's  wife,"  she  complained. 
"  It's  a  pity  you  wouldn't  take  my  advice  and  marry 
Peter  Witterspoon.  ..." 

"  I  loved  Denis,"  Lucy  interrupted. 

"  Oh  !  if  we  are  to  consider  that,  of  course  there  is 
nothing  more  to  be  said." 

"  It  is  the  beginning  and  end  of  all  things,"  Lucy  flamed. 

Aunt  Mary  closed  her  fan  and  rose  slowly — "  If  your 
uncle — dear  man — offered  me  this,"  she  swept  the  room 
with  her  fan,  "  and  Peter  Witterspoon  offered  me  what  he 
can  offer  you,  I  should  try  to  forget  that  I  had  married 
Uncle  Charlie.  That  might  be  a  little  cruel — for  a  time — 
but  very  soon  it  wouldn't  count.  Other  things  come  in 
there  .  .  .  other  women.  ..." 

"  But  if  you  loved  him  ?  "  Lucy  gasped.  "  If  you 
loved  him  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  /  don't  count.  I  like  pretty  things. 
Pretty  things  cost  money.  Get  hold  of  the  man  who  can 
give  them  to  you — that  is  my  creed." 

"  But  if  the  man  loves  you  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  be  childish.  A  man  is  exactly  what  his  wife 
makes  him.  Never  forget  that." 

"  It  accounts,"  Lucy  smiled,  "  for  an  awful  lot  of  bores." 

Aunt  Mary  scarcely  resented  this.  She  said  dog- 
matically, "  Originally,  of  course,  a  man  lacks  dis- 
crimination. He  never  knows,  for  instance,  how  you  are 
dressed.  He  is  brutal,  too,  so  be  careful  of  powder.  He 


284  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

hates  it  and  will  tell  you  in  a  second  if  it  is  too  thick  on 
your  nose." 

"  Not  if  he  loves  you,"  Lucy  declared. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  Aunt  Mary  said,  "  of  men  who  have 
been  married  more  than  three  years.  Love  !  Does  that 
provide  us  with  frocks  and  dinners  ?  "  She  came  near 
and  held  out  her  bangled  arms,  a  woman  of  forty-five 
exquisitely  tricked  out  to  ape  thirty.  "  Au  revoir,  dear 
child.  Come  and  have  a  bit  of  dinner  with  me  to-morrow. 
Bring  Denis,  of  course,  and  arrange " 

"  Thanks  awfully.  Afraid  it  can't  be  done,"  Lucy 
decided  at  once. 

"  Baba  ?  " 

"  I  couldn't  leave  him." 

Aunt  Mary  leaned  forward  and  offered  her  cheek. 

"  That  is  the  worst  of  love,"  she  said  in  her  cool  and 
insolent  drawl,  "  it  gives  us  babies  .  .  .  tut-tut !  Keep 
fit  and  make  haste  to  get  away  from  this  place.  It's  too 
terrible." 

Lucy  returned  to  her  room  and  took  up  her  needle. 
She  began  to  work.  Click,  click,  the  needle  made  answer ; 
click,  click,  click.  And  between  each  sound  Lucy's  soft 
hand  travelled  out  and  back,  out  and  back,  with  the 
regularity  of  a  machine. 


CHAPTER   IV 

CONTEMPTUOUS   EXISTENCE 

THIN  columns  of  smoke,  ascending  in  spirals,  attested 
to  the  lack  of  all  breeze.  It  was  three  o'clock  on  a  May 
day  and  the  temperature  that  of  an  oven.  For  a  week, 
after  an  appalling  spell  of  rain  and  wind,  the  city  had 
enjoyed  a  taste  of  summer.  For  seven  days  the  sun  had 
revelled  on  the  grey  and  white  sterility  known  as  East 
London,  searching  it  to  the  last  corner  and  sending  people 
clad  for  winter  panting  through  the  streets — but  to-day, 
Saturday,  was  the  worst  of  them.  It  seemed  possible  that 
thunder  brooded  somewhere  ;  that  presently  great  drops 
of  rain  would  splash  on  the  hot  pavements  and  the  air 
would  become  cooler. 

Baba  was  unhappy.  He  kept  Lucy  constantly  busy, 
constantly  tired.  He  was  a  new  child,  here  at  the  heart 
of  the  city ;  one  Lucy  scarcely  recognised.  Denis  was 
unhappy,  too.  He  came  in  weary  from  the  never-ending 
interviews  and  consultations  which  occupied  him  at  this 
time.  He  admitted  that  his  case  scarcely  seemed  to  move, 
but  that  it  would  do  so  presently.  For  weeks  he  had  been 
at  work  preparing  it,  early  and  late  ;  it  mattered  nothing, 
and  now,  so  Lucy  understood,  they  were  waiting  to  get 
it  set  down  for  hearing. 

When  Denis  was  not  with  Stephen  Hammond  he  was 
walking  the  byways  seeking  out  those  who  might  or  might 
not  know  Cockney,  the  witness  who  had  sworn  to  his  in- 
temperance. He  was  seeking  work,  too,  of  a  kind  which 
would  not  occupy  him  entirely.  And  this  perhaps  is 
more  difficult  to  obtain  than  any  other.  Yet  it  was  essen- 
tial, Hammond  decided,  that  he  should  be  able  to  call  on 
him  at  a  moment's  notice  if  need  be. 

London  had  shown  O'Hagan  the  advantages  of  being 
unfit.  It  had  shown  him  how  the  unfit  score.  He  had 
a  certain  education — it  availed  him  nothing.  He  was 
straight  and  young  and  fearless — but  he  had  no  capital. 
That  remained  in  Sharum's  hands — Sharum  whom  he  could 


286  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

not  legally  touch.  A  lie  he  termed  a  lie.  Subornation 
he  spoke  of  as  the  last  deadly  sin.  These  factors,  if  they 
swayed  at  all,  swayed  against  O'Hagan.  Never  at  one 
turn  did  birth  or  education  aid  him  ;  yet  for  weeks  in  the 
London  wilderness  he  had  moved  challenging  fate. 

The  time  had  been  long.  Also,  in  a  certain  fashion, 
it  had  been  short.  He  had  not  done  what  he  set  out  to 
do  ;  but  he  was  weary — weary  as  are  the  lost  Ten  Tribes 
of  being  found. 

The  City  in  Spring,  O'Hagan  discovered  to  be  a  place 
of  lassitude.  If  you  had  an  office  in  it  you  could  retire 
at  will ;  but  if  you  were  of  those  who  sought  work  the 
remedy  is  less  easy.  O'Hagan.  however,  at  this  time  was 
engaged  in  following  Worsdale's  instructions  given  on 
the  day  before  the  great  little  man  started  for  the  East. 
O'Hagan  came  down  to  see  him  off — he  was  sailing  on  a 
voyage  of  inspection  and  would  be  absent  for  months. 
That  happened  in  March,  but  O'Hagan  had  not  yet  seen 
reason  to  scoff  at  his  advice.  Stephen  Hammond  backed 
it  too,  and  together  the  pair  were  irresistible. 

Besides — it  was  essential.  Whatever  had  been  the 
position  when  O'Hagan  took  service  with  McClure,  the 
question  now  was,  in  Worsdale's  words — 

"  Get  clear  of  that  smudge."  He  spoke  on  the  deck  of 
the  Saladln  eight  weeks  ago,  hammering  in  his  theory. 
"  They  said  you  were  drunk,  my  boy.  Disprove  it  ... 
if  you  can't  disprove  it,  then,  by  the  Lord  !  I'm  sorry  for 
you.  You'll  have  to  try  your  hand  at  something  else  .  .  . 
No — I  can't  blame  Lloyd's  entirely.  On  consideration  of 
a  very  difficult  problem  I  am  inclined  to  think  I  was  hasty 
in  my  judgment  there.  It  is  the  court  that  set  you  on  fire 
...  or  a  thing  they  have  the  audacity  to  term  a  court. 
Disprove  the  lie  they  fathered.  Use  money — I  have  told 
Hammond  what  to  do — and  when  I  come  back  you  can 
tell  me  how  you  stand." 

Then  he  sailed  and  for  months  yet  the  East  would  hold 
him.  No  greater  blow  could  have  been  struck  at  this  time, 
although  O'Hagan  in  his  cock-a-hoop  fashion  would 
scarcely  have  admitted  it.  But  it  soon  became  evident 
Hammond  was  a  lawyer  with  all  a  lawyer's  dread  of  the 
law.  It  became  necessary  to  move  slowly,  to  make  quite 
sure  of  the  ground.  He  desired  proof,  proof  at  every 
step — and  proof  is  a  matter  very  difficult  to  obtain  in 
questions  of  subornation. 


CONTEMPTUOUS   EXISTENCE  287 

For  all  that,  quite  early  in  the  Spring  O'Hagan  got  to 
work  on  this  matter  of  finding  the  witnesses  who  had 
spoken  at  Jake  Hall  to  his  drunken  habits.  It  was  not  an 
alluring  task.  It  predicated  the  condition  which  Worsdale 
had  labelled  "  smudge."  It  necessitated  an  immense 
caution,  and  entailed  long  hours  of  wandering  in  unclean 
bars  and  deadly  "  Homes  " — the  habitations  of  sailors. 
It  involved  an  unwelcome  and  constant  expenditure  of 
those  hardly  earned  sovereigns  he  had  in  store,  and  after 
weeks  of  mean  trafficking  he  found  himself  no  nearer  the 
goal,  but  halting,  baffled  by  the  difficulty  of  advance. 

All  his  searchings  had  been  made  east  of  the  Monument. 
Tower  Hill  was  considered  a  possible  hunting  ground. 
The  offices  of  the  Local  Marine  Board,  Well  Street  Sailors' 
Home,  various  minor  officials — all  had  to  be  seen.  It 
was  worse  than  dockwalloping,  worse,  more  degrading 
than  anything  O'Hagan  had  touched  since  his  trial. 

And  the  net  result  of  it  was  that  Hammond  considered 
he  had  no  proof — which  probably  was  true  ;  that  Sharum 
was  at  the  back  of  McClure's  action — which  showed  that 
Sharum  was  now  a  person  as  important  as  his  offices 
seemed  to  suggest.  It  showed,  too,  that  Hammond  was 
impressed  by  the  bigness  of  the  antagonist  he  must 
attack  on  evidence  so  slender ;  that  it  would  be  wiser 
to  throw  the  burden  of  producing  Cockney  on  the  ship- 
owner by  bringing  against  him  an  action  for  slander, 
defamation — call  it  what  you  will. 

O'Hagan  listened  in  despair.  In  the  few  years  which 
had  elapsed  since  he  answered  the  advertisement  which  gave 
him  command  of  the  Sphinx,  Sharum  had  climbed.  He 
was  a  power  in  the  world  of  shippers,  a  force  which  McClure 
stated  must  be  taken  into  consideration  in  all  future 
operations.  The  Syndicate,  he  heard,  must  take  its  place 
not  because  it  was  required  by  McClure  and  those  others, 
but  because  it  was  big  enough  to  force  its  way. 

Hammond  with  a  touch  of  sadness  admitted  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  deal  with  Sharums,  Limited,  as 
it  would  have  been  possible  to  deal  with  the  tin-pot, 
one-ship  concerns  controlled  by  Sharum,  Fit  &  Co. 
Trade  was  booming,  freights  leaping,  there  were  not 
enough  vessels  to  meet  the  demand,  and  shipowners  like 
Sharums  were  reaping  a  golden  harvest  owing  to  the 
alteration  of  the  load  line. 

Everything  moved  against  O'Hagan.     Matters  seemed 


288  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

to  be  approaching  stalemate  ;  but  Denis,  who  would  listen 
to  no  variation  of  Worsdale's  formula,  continued  to  dree 
his  weird  as  only  a  Scot  or  an  Irishman  can.  The  cold 
streets  appalled  him.  The  misery  and  degradation  kept  him 
quiet  when  he  reached  home.  So  the  days  dragged  by. 

Lucy  at  nightfall  was  often  more  tired  than  her  husband, 
but  she  could  not  sleep  as  readily.  The  uncertainty  of 
Den's  position  kept  her  awake  when  she  should  have 
been  winning  freshness.  Her  failure  to  do  anything  to 
help  had  developed  into  a  kind  of  anguish,  hidden,  pushed 
out  of  sight  lest  Den  should  be  pained,  which  tried  her 
severely.  Peter  Witterspoon  had  done  nothing.  Lucy 
understood  that  Sharum  seemed  to  shy  at  the  proposal 
when  coming  from  him,  precisely  as  when  she  had  attempted 
to  win  him  herself.  She  wondered  what  would  be  the 
upshot.  Sometimes  she  prayed.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
futile  to  pray.  Then  she  wrote  to  Aunt  Mary  that  the 
end  was  at  hand,  and  followed  the  letter  with  a  telegram 
which  said,  "  Take  no  notice.  All  well  again." 

Occasionally  Peter  Witterspoon  came  to  take  them  for 
a  run  in  his  car  ;  then  Baba,  the  small  maid  and  Lucy 
would  go  swiftly  through  the  streets  to  the  green  carpets 
of  Epping,  breathe  the  freshness  for  an  hour  and  return. 
No  news,  though.  Nothing  done.  No  suggestion  of 
Sharum's  intention.  No  promise  that  it  would  be  possible 
to  use  pressure  in  order  to  obtain  his  aid — only  a  more 
familiar  touch  from  Peter  Witterspoon,  glances  which 
made  Lucy  burn,  suggestions  for  more  frequent  runs. 
Runs  sans  Baby  and  Nurse,  so  that  Mrs.  O'Hagan  might 
learn  the  beauty  of  the  country  a  bit  farther  afield,  and 
understand  what  speed  meant  when  they  "  let  her  out  " 
on  a  road  clear  of  town. 

Epping,  it  appeared,  was  town  to  Peter  Witterspoon 
here.  "  You  might  just  as  well  try  to  run  a  car  in  Hyde 
Park."  He  spoke  contemptuously.  "  Come  out  on  to 
the  road.  Let  me  show  you  what  it  is  like  to  swish. 
Choose  a  fine  day,  start  early,  take  lunch,  it  will  do  more 
to  bring  back  the  roses  than  weeks  of  dawdling  here." 
But  Lucy  pushed  off  these  prayers,  asked  what  had  been 
done  and  received  no  reply.  And  then  one  day,  a  day 
of  steaming  mugginess,  she  threw  finesse  to  the  winds, 
openly  challenged  Peter  to  do  something  or  stay  away — 
never,  never  to  return  any  more. 

"  You  come  to  see  me !  "  she  flamed,  facing  him.    "  What 


CONTEMPTUOUS  EXISTENCE  280 

is  the  use  of  pretence  ?  You  come  to  talk  and  play  with 
my  life.  You  know  I  am  married.  Be  a  man  and  help 
me  to  pull  through." 

That  produced  explanation  of  the  illusive  sort.  Peter 
Witterspoon  was  too  deeply  in  love  to  be  offended  by  a 
pretty  woman's  first  outcry.  He  could  not  believe  that 
she  had  any  real  affection  for  this  rag  of  a  man  who 
was  unable  to  support  her  in  comfort.  But  he  was  too 
infatuated  to  risk  argument,  too  uncertain  of  Lucy. 
He  told  her  that  as  far  as  he  understood  the  affair,  Sharum 
refused  to  move  because  Captain  O'Hagan  had  entered, 
or  threatened  to  enter  an  action  for  slander  or  defamation 
of  character  against  Sharum  ..."  And  so — well,  you 
see,  that  will  have  to  be  withdrawn  before  I  can  press  him 
very  seriously." 

He  left  her  that  afternoon  with  the  advice  that  O'Hagan 
should  make  the  first  move  towards  peace  by  retiring 
his  action.  He  left  it  to  Lucy  to  break  it  to  her  husband 
or  not  as  she  thought  fit ;  but  as  he  made  it  a  condition 
it  was  obvious  she  must  act. 

She  had  kept  all  knowledge  of  her  meeting  with  Petei 
Witterspoon  from  Denis,  at  first  because  she  longed  to 
be  able  to  announce  suddenly  that  she  had  worked  the 
miracle  which  had  saved  him.  She  kept  it  afterwards, 
because  as  time  went  by  it  became  more  difficult  to  explain 
actions  which  at  first  had  been  simple,  but  now  were  com- 
plex. Car  rides  had  come  upon  the  scene,  Aunt  Mary's 
advice  instead  of  Den's,  attempts  at  love-making  which  at 
first  had  been  suppressed  .  .  .  and  now,  at  the  end  of 
three  months'  fencing,  Lucy  was  faced  with  this  additional 
burden  and  knew  that  she  must  carry  it. 

No  wonder  the  days  were  long,  the  nights  a  terror,  the 
heat  devilish,  the  dust  a  cloak  of  misery.  To  make  it 
all  more  difficult  Den  came  home  later  and  presently 
took  to  brooding — sitting  in  a  chair,  his  head  sunk, 
instead  of  talking  or  reading,  as  had  been  his  custom. 
Lucy  watched  and  drew  conclusions.  It  was  obvious. 
She  strove  to  win  his  smiles,  her  heart  breaking.  He 
scarcely  noticed. 

Sometimes  he  was  ready  with  his  tongue  to  bite  at  the 
conditions  they  all  faced  ;  sometimes  content  to  remain 
silent,  to  sit  still  and  watch  the  sky  pale,  ask  for  "  the 
kiddie "  and  pass  away  into  a  trance.  To-night  he 
arrived  as  a  train  load  of  bricks  thundered  down  the 

B.F.  U 


290  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

street,  the  engine  gasping,  dampers  open  to  wake  who 
slept. 

"  Might  just  as  well  live  in  a  coal  mine  as  in  Bearsted 
Road  these  times,"  he  announced,  brushing  vigorously 
in  the  passage  before  the  door  Lucy  had  opened.  "  Dust 
in  the  air- — dust  on  the  people — dust  in  rooms  and  on  our 
food — dust  white  on  the  coats  of  the  horses  these  damned 
things  are  exterminating.  Why  don't  they  poison  us 
and  have  done  with  it  ?  Motors  racing,  lorries  charging, 
trams  clanging — no  wonder  the  asylums  are  full.  .  .  . 
I  shall  be  a  patient  myself  if  this  goes  on.  You  too,  dear 
child  !  Good  God  !  What  in  the  world  have  I  done  now  ?  " 

Lucy  was  in  his  arms,  her  face  pressed  against  his  shoul- 
der, trembling  and  in  a  passion  of  apprehension.  With 
ready  intuition  she  had  divined  the  cause  of  his  anger. 
She  admitted  its  justice. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  eyes,  but  without  passion. 
He  knew  why  she  clung  to  him,  but  the  black  rage  of  his 
people  was  upon  him  and  his  tongue  wagged  on  side  issues. 

"Isn't  it  enough  to  make  one  swear  ?  "  he  asked,  although 
they  stood  linked.  "  No  water  to  lay  the  dust  for  us. 
Very  few  scavengers  here- — but  cabs  and  cars  whirring, 
flinging  filth  on  all  the  fools  who  walk.  That  is  their 
pleasant  custom  where  poverty  sleeps  and  man  is  deaf 
to  noise.  .  .  . 

"  This  is  the  East  End,  Mem-sahib.  A  quarter  where 
latitude  exists  for  every  driver,  but  none  for  the  street 
in  which  he  drives.  ...  If  you  choose  to  live  in  Slumland 
you  must  accept  what  Slumland  offers.  It  offers  every- 
thing in  shouts  if  you  care  to  analyse  its  voices — shouts  of 
argument,  shouts  of  laughter,  anger,  misery  ;  shouts  of 
its  desire  to  sell  or  buy,  or  fall  down  or  sit  up  or  blow 
its  nose.  It  is  all  noise.  A  screaming  note  is  the  only 
evident  method  of  speech ;  a  whine,  h-less  and  exas- 
perating, lacking  all  quality.  You  may  not  care  about 
the  Yorkshire  or  Devonshire  or  Lancashire  dialects ; 
but  the  drawl  of  a  cockney  knocks  you  down." 

Lucy  clung  to  his  arm.  They  mounted  the  stairs  and 
entered  their  room.  The  child  slept. 

Outside  the  central  noise  of  London  droned  on.  Night 
or  day  it  never  ceased.  It  varied  in  degree  and  tone. 
It  came  more  punctuated  with  sporadic  clamour  by  day ; 
more  charged  with  a  muttering  boom  by  night.  It  was 
immense,  prophetic,  malevolent,  terrible,  according  to 


CONTEMPTUOUS  EXISTENCE  291 

the  mood  of  the  listener.  It  made  the  heart  of  some  to 
stand  still,  the  heart  of  others  to  beat.  It  irritated  those 
who  were  new  to  it,  deadened  those  who  were  old,  worn, 
but  accustomed  to  its  drone. 

Like  the  dust  and  the  smoke  of  all  great  cities,  it  was 
generally  supposed  that  the  world  could  not  very  well 
get  on  without  noise. 

In  the  seclusion  of  their  room  overlooking  the  bear 
garden,  Denis  persuaded  Lucy  that  his  anger  was  with 
things,  not  with  his  wife.  He  said  he  loved  her  as  never 
before  ;  that  her  love  alone  kept  him  straight,  that  if  she 
threw  him  over  the  world  was  at  an  end  as  far  as  he  was 
concerned.  He  said  that  if  she  went  back  on  him  he  would 
light  a  fire  in  the  offices  of  Sharums,  Limited,  which  would 
burn  out  the  thieves  and  scorch  that  devil  even  if  he  were 
at  his  home  in  Surrey.  There  would  be  nothing  left  t;> 
think  of — nothing.  And  then  Lucy  was  sure. 

He  was  plainly  exasperated  in  spite  of  her  touch,  in 
spite  of  her  promises.  He  had  had  such  a  devil  of  a  time 
of  it  to-day — everything  wrong.  He  stared  in  her  face 
and  her  hand  went  up  to  soothe  him.  There  had  been 
some  talk  of  that  Cockney.  He  had  been  seen,  but  al- 
though Denis  was  early  on  his  track,  the  thing  misfired. 
Perhaps  the  beast  had  shipped  again  ...  in  that  case 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  further  waiting.  If  he  got 
away  to  sea  he  would  not  be  back  for  three  or  four  months. 
The  winter  on  top  of  us,  too,  by  Jove !  before  we  can 
move.  .  .  . 

"  For  two  pins  I  would  throw  up  the  whole  thing.  If  I 
thought  I  could  get  a  berth  again,  command,  officer, 
quartermaster  even,  I  believe  I  should  chuck  this  fight," 
he  announced  at  last.  "  I'm  tired  of  it.  It  is  wearing 
us  all  down.  In  spite  of  Worsdale  and  Hammond  I  should 
take  what  is  offered  and  get  back  to  sea.  ...  It  is  clean 
there.  The  wind  blows  devilry  out  of  one.  There  are  no 
sneaking  meannesses.  The  seas  wash  you  white — but 
business  !  God  of  my  fathers  1  it  makes  me  retch. 
It  stands  sneering  over  the  ineptitude  of  those  who  have 
no  money — yet  live  in  London.  .  .  .  Married  a  fool, 
oh  Mem-sahib  .  .  .  Married  a  waster.  One  of  the  sort 
that  fill  our  streets  and  wring  us  dry.  .  .  .  What  ?  " 

"  No — no — no  !  "  Lucy's  soft  lips  gave  the  lie  to  this, 
her  arms  clinging  to  his  told  him  it  was  absurd,  her 
flushed  cheeks  and  half-scared  eyes  begged  for  patience, 

U  2 


292  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

and  for  a  moment  he  listened,  drew  her  to  him  and  seemed 
at  peace.  Then  again  came  a  question — tossed  out  from 
the  burden  he  bore — 

"  How's  the  kiddie  ?  " 

"  Restless,  darling.  The  hot,  dry  winds  try  him  here 
...  but  ..  ." 

He  sat  forward  at  this,  staring  across  the  room. 

"  Getting  beaten,  Mem-sahib,"  he  ejaculated.  "  Wife 
suffering,  Baba  suffering  .  .  .  the  house  out  there  at 
Riverton  ready  to  take  us  in  ;  but  no  money  in  the  till, 
no  chance  of  going  to  it.  Getting  ground  in  the  Mill, 
oh  dearest — the  damned  Mill  which  does  not  discriminate 
between  rich  and  poor,  educated  and  uneducated,  hale  or 
frail,  by  Jove  1  ...  except  in  the  direction  known  as 
aid  for  the  unfit  ...  no  wonder  you  are  sick  of  it  ! 

"  We  are  the  fit,  you  see,"  he  pronounced  in  scathing 
comment.  "  In  England  to-day  folks  are  more  concerned 
to  patch  up  the  unfit  than  to  keep  strong  those  who  are 
sound.  .  .  .  Sick  of  it  all,  dearest.  Sick  of  it — sick  to 
death !  " 

He  leaned  forward  head  in  hands — but  he  had  said 
nothing. 

And  again  Lucy  begged  for  patience,  her  heart  throbbing 
as  never  before  at  the  sight  of  his  misery.  Something 
had  gone  very  badly  awry  to-day.  She  knew.  She  knew, 
and  wondered  what  he  knew.  This  was  the  first  time  he 
had  given  way  so  completely  ;  the  first  time  she  had  been 
unable  to  win  him  back.  She  pleaded  for  rest,  forgetful- 
ness,  for  trust ;  but  he  returned  to  his  plaint  with  a  twist 
as  he  sprang  to  march  the  room. 

"  I  feel  such  a  waster,"  he  said.  "  I'm  tied  every- 
where .  .  .  can't  move.  If  " — he  halted  before  her  with 
biting  speech — "  if  we  were  of  the  submerged  tenth  they 
all  prattle  about,  we  should  have  charity  societies  tum- 
bling over  each  other  to  get  at  us.  If  we  were  criminals, 
professors  of  pathology  would  enunciate  stupid  doctrines 
concerning  original  sin — but  we  would  be  fed.  If  you  or 
I  were  simply  useless  " — he  marched  again — "  malformed, 
semi-idiot,  a  means  would  be  found  to  enable  us  to  make 
a  noise  in  the  streets  so  that  we  might  earn  pennies.  Baba 
could  be  put  out  to  nurse.  Somebody  would  feed  him. 
But  because  we  happen  to  be  middle-class  English  people, 
and  I  a  damned  sailor  fellow  pushed  over  the  rim  by  a 
scoundrel,  no  power  will  help  me  get  back  what  they  have 


CONTEMPTUOUS   EXISTENCE  293 

stolen  from  me — legally,  mind — don't  forget  that — and 
knocked  me  down  to  get.  .  ,  .  So,  oh,  well !  that  makes 
it  difficult  in  these  days,  little  Mem-sahib.  Nothing  but 
bills — taxes — rates — demands  to  know  how  much  profit 
I  have  made  by  letting  my  house.  .  . 

"  Eyah  !  A  poor  man  very  soons  learns  that  heaven 
neither  showers  manna,  nor  provides  philanthropic 
ravens  to  feed  those  who  are  pushed  into  the  wilderness 
these  days.  .  .  .  That  hurts  us.  It  hurts  us  sometimes 
so  badly  that  we  squeak  as  I  am  doing  now."  He  raised 
his  hand  standing  still,  his  head  thrust  forward.  "  It 
hurts  us  so  that  we  find  ourselves  considering  the  wisdom 
of  oblivion — oblivion,  the  escape  fools  dream  of — and  a 
man  comes  very  near  the  edge  of  things  .  .  .  close  to  it, 
Mem-sahib — close.  It  teaches  him  to  be  cynical — as  lam. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  know,  I  know — but,  "  he  cried  out,  drowning 
Lucy's  voice  as  she  appealed  to  him,  the  tears  raining  down, 
"  if  you  are  a  criminal  you  may  not  starve.  If  you  are  a 
damned  sailor  on  the  Black  List  you  very  probably  will. 

"  Look  to  your  skin,  world  !  There  comes  a  day  when 
your  Bottle-fillers  will  be  organised,  ready  to  go  on  strike 
.  .  .  like  the  dock  hands.  ..." 

Lucy  sat  crouched  on  the  rug  at  his  feet.  He  was 
scarcely  aware  of  her  presence.  He  had  come  to  earth 
again.  His  eyes  were  on  the  shadows  which  accumulated 
over  there  beyond  the  chimneys ;  his  ears  attuned  to 
hear  only  the  noise  which  came  in  to  worry  them.  He 
was  of  the  race  which  sees  visions,  hears  voices,  and  is 
able  to  prophesy.  A  virile  and  splendid  race  when  facing 
a  path  which  leads  to  the  stars  ;  a  sorrowful  and  dangerous 
race  when  hipped  by  curtailed  liberty,  oppression,  Wrong 
masquerading  in  the  still  guise  of  Justice. 

A  movement  down  there  at  his  feet  drew  his  attention 
and  he  stooped  instantly. 

"  Mem-sahib  !  "  he  cried  out.  "  What  are  you  doing 
there  ?  " 

"  Praying  .  ,  .  hiding,"  she  sobbed. 

He  drew  her  close,  his  knees  supporting  her.  He 
seemed  astonished  that  her  eyes  were  charged  with  tears. 
He  leaned  over  her  crooning — "  Good  God  !  .  .  .  You 
couldn't  love  him  !  I've  made  you  cry  ,  .  .  couldn't 
.  .  .  couldn't  love  him  .  .  ."  then  in  the  words  she  used 
to  sing  to  him — 

"  You  are  my  soul — I  am  your  slave  !    Don't  mind  my 


294  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

moods.  They  come  and  go  ...  come  and  go  like  the 
chances  we  have  missed." 

She  clung  to  him  sobbing.  He  soothed  her,  holding 
her  close  as  on  that  night  when  she  had  entered  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow ;  close  as  on  that  evening  when  the  sands 
of  Sahara  lay  beside  them  and  the  waters  of  Suez  babbled 
at  their  feet.  With  his  arms  about  her,  swaying  her  to 
and  fro  as  though  she  were  still  a  child,  he  poured  out  his 
sorrow  and  his  pain.  She  buried  her  face  on  his  breast. 

And  the  roar  of  the  streets  accompanied  his  words ; 
the  drone  of  a  car  rumbling  towards  the  docks  ;  the  whirr 
of  a  breeze  which  presently  would  die  and  leave  them 
palpitating  on  the  grey  shoulder  of  this  giant  city — 
listening  to  the  throb  of  its  heart. 

She  became  calm  under  his  touch.  His  influence  was 
very  real.  She  desired  always  to  see  in  his  eyes  the  light 
which  now  shone  hi  them.  She  was  afraid  to  break  in 
with  the  paltry  history  of  her  attempt  which  in  some  way 
he  had  fathomed ;  but  it  was  essential  that  she  should. 
Told  by  a  third  person  her  indiscretion  would  be  moun- 
tainous. She  had  striven  to  help  him.  She  had  prayed 
for  opportunity  to  prove  to  him  she  was  not  altogether  a 
burden,  and  opportunity  had  come  to  her  in  the  guise  of 
Peter  Witterspoon  the  sybarite  son,  shrewd  and  alert,  of 
a  millionaire  pill-maker. 

How  had  this  thing  come  to  Den's  ears  ? 

She  twisted  and  faced  him  on  her  knees,  her  cheeks 
flushed,  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders. 

"  What  have  you  heard  ?  "  she  asked  him  with  a  direct 
touch  that  was  tragic. 

He  met  her,  holding  with  his  two  hands  the  face  she 
lifted  to  his. 

"  Too  little  for  anger,  Mem-sahib,  too  much  for  peace," 
he  told  her.  "  I  happened  to  come  home  rather  early 
the  last  time  you  were  out,  and " 

"  Yesterday  ?  "   she  interrupted. 

He  signalled  assent. 

"  And  they  told  you  downstairs  ?  " 

"  I  asked  for  you  .  .  .  they  could  scarcely  avoid  it. 
I  pretended  I  knew  and  they  poured  out  their  congratula- 
tions— '  Lucky  people  to  'av  such  friends.  Lucky  for 
your  dear  good  lady,  sir  ;  lucky  for  the  bootiful  child.  It 
does  'em  all  good  to  get  a  run  .  .  .  bucks  'em  up  some- 
think  wonderful,'  "  he  mocked,  and  released  her. 


CONTEMPTUOUS   EXISTENCE  295 

"  And — and  you  have  bottled  it  ever  since — oh  !  my 
darling  !  .  .  ."  She  hid  her  face. 

"  I  thought  you  would  speak  of  it.  I  waited  all  last 
evening — I — I  scarcely  knew  what  to  say  as  you  didn't. 
And  I  hated  it — hated  it.  Who  is  it,  Mem-sahib  ?  " 

"  Peter  Witterspoon,  oh  dearest  ..."  she  gave  back, 
with  a  rush  that  seemed  to  choke  her. 

"  That  millionaire  man  you  knew  in  India  ?  I  seem 
to  know  the  name.  ..." 

"  Yes." 

"  Hum  !  You  should  have  married  him,  little  girl. 
What  is  he  doing  here  ?  " 

She  captured  his  hand  and  rubbed  her  cheek  upon  it. 
"  Little  girl  loved  you — you.  No  one  in  the  world  but  you." 

"  Grossly  unpractical,"  he  commented,  his  ears  recog- 
nising the  appeal  in  her  voice,  his  eyes  refusing  it. 

"  Love  knows  nothing  of  that,"  she  told  him. 

"  Then  it  should."  He  drew  near  in  spite  of  this 
pronouncement,  and  said — "  He  is  the  man  your  aunt 
wanted  you  to  marry,  anyhow." 

"  Den  !  Den  !  Oh  my  dearest !  "  she  flamed  at  this. 
"  I  wouldn't  have  married  Peter  Witterspoon  if  he  had 

asked  me.  ...  I  didn't  know    he "   and  then   she 

halted,  troubled  by  the  knowledge  she  had  acquired,  since 
she  had  set  her  heart  on  helping  her  husband. 

O'Hagan  made  a  gesture  of  disapproval.  "Dearest! 
I  didn't  quite  mean  that.  I — I  put  it  stupidly.  It's 
rather  difficult  to  know  how  to  put  it.  .  .  ." 

Instantly  she  was  leaning  towards  him,  once  more 
pressing  his  hands  close. 

"  That  is  my  husband  again,"  she  whispered.  "  Den,  I 
want  to  see  that  light  in  your  eyes  always  ...  no  other 
light — no  doubt  or  sorrow  or  anger,  but  just  the  look  you 
gave  me  when  you  peeped  in  upon  me  and  found  Baba 
at  my  breast.  ...  I  love  you,  dearest.  ...  I  never 
loved  anyone  else,  only  you,  as  you  love  me — while  God  is 
God  and  we  are  His  children  ...  we  are  crossing  swords 
to-day,  Den  ...  we  are  playing  with  fire — and  it  will 
hurt  us  and  burn  us  unless  we  have  trust  in  each  other.  I 
ask  for  your  trust  as  I  give  you  mine  .  .  .  nothing  can 
harm  us  if  we  stand  to  that.  Peter  Witterspoon  !  " — 
scorn  touched  her  with  the  name — "  is  nothing  to  me.  He 
is  a  means  to  an  end.  He  may  choose  to  give  me  back 
happiness.  He  may  help  me  to  help  you — you,  who  are 


296  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

my  life  .  .  .  my  life.  He  is  one  of  the  pawns  women  are 
able  to  twist  and  break  and  throw  aside.  .  .  .  He  is  not 
great  or  fine  or  very  clean  .  .  ,  but  I  am  your  wife,  oh 
dearest,  and  you  need  have  no  fear." 

He  sat  in  silence,  listening,  his  hands  limply  in  hers. 

*'  I  wanted  to  help  you.  I  saw  you  failing.  I  saw  you 
at  the  edge  of  things,  even  as  you  said  a  while  ago.  I 
saw  you  falling — getting  broken  on  the  wheel,  and  I 
longed  to  show  you  that  marriage  need  not  make  a 
woman  helpless,  a  weight,  a  drag  .  .  .  that  encum- 
brance thing  they  are  always  jeering  at,  and  so  I  wrote  to 
Aunt  Mary.  .  .  . 

"  That  happened  soon  after  we  came  here.  I  found  out 
that  Peter  Witterspoon  is  the  man  who  has  put  Sharum 
on  his  feet,  made  him  big  and  difficult.  .  .  ." 

"  Sharum  ?  "  he  interrupted,  sitting  back. 

"  Yes."  She  watched  his  face,  reading  the  signs. 
"  Didn't  you  know  they  were  connected  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  ?  " 

"  Then  thai  is  the  reason  you  never  spoke  of — of  Peter 
Witterspoon  to  me,"  she  commented,  her  eyes  wide.  "  Oh  ! 
what  a  stupid,  stupid  muddle  !  .  .  . 

"  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,"  said  O'Hagan  coldly, 
"  I  admit  I  am  at  fault  as  far  as  Sharum  is  concerned." 

She  put  up  her  hands  as  though  to  screen  her  face  from 
a  blow. 

"  Don't !  Don't !  "  she  cried  out.  "  You  break  my 
heart." 

He  made  no  advance.  His  face  was  cold  as  his  tone, 
when  he  replied — 

"  I  understand,  then,  that  in  the  hope  that  Peter 
Witterspoon  may  play  on  Sharum's  sense  of  justice, 
honour,  or  whatever  it  is  the  beast  has,  you  are  playing  on 
Peter  Witterspoon.  .  .  .  Come  out  of  it,  Mem-sahib,"  he 
said  in  cutting  tones.  "  It  isn't  the  work  for  women 
.  .  .  it's  men's  work.  The  work  of  those  who  can  give 
blows,  kick  if  need  be,  jam  their  vile  actions  down  their 
lank  throats  by  sheer  force  of  muscle.  .  .  .  No  other  way 
remains  when  the  law  stands  mincing  over  shibboleths. 
No  other  hope  exists.  .  .  .  Peter  Witterspoon  !  "  he  flung 
out,  rising.  "  If  I  get  in  touch  with  him  I  shall  be  sorry  for 
Peter  Witterspoon." 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  maid  entered 


CONTEMPTUOUS   EXISTENCE  297 

presently  to  find  them  quiet.  O'Hagan  held  a  book 
which  he  did  not  read.  Lucy  held  work  which  had  no 
needle. 

The  maid  displayed  no  surprise.  She  brought  in  a 
supper  of  cold  meat  and  hot  cocoa,  bread,  cheese  and 
butter.  She  sighed  as  she  placed  it  duly  on  the  spread 
cloth.  With  her  head  on  one  side  she  marched  round  the 
table  re-touching  her  handiwork ;  then,  moving  to  the 
door,  opened  it  and  stood  to  say — 

"  Is  there  any  think  else  as  you  would  like,  'em  ?  " 

Lucy  glanced  at  the  table  and  said — "  No,  I  think  not, 
thank  you." 

The  maid  licked  her  lips — "  Missis  says,  'em,  if  you'd 
like  a  bit  of  beefsteak  pie  she's  got  one  all  'ot  an'  ready  to 
come  up.  .  .  ." 

Lucy  said  she  was  not  sure  she  wanted  it  and  asked 
Denis. 

"  Pie  !  "  He  laughed  awkwardly.  "  What  in  the 
world  for  ?  " 

The  maid  took  this  literally,  and  replied  verbatim — 

"  To  eat,  if  you  please,  sir — because  missis  says  it's 
the  24th,  an'  she  alw'ys  'as  pies  fer  'er  guests  on  Hempire 
D'y  .  .  .  an'-if-you-please-it's-no-extre.  ..." 

Lucy  began  to  laugh,  but  Den  failed  here.  What  he 
said  sounded  like — 

"  Ravens,  after  all,  Mem-sahib  !  Rather.  Never  look 
a  gift  horse  in  the  face  lest  he  should  turn  and  kick  you." 

So  the  pie  was  brought ;  the  cold  meat  taken  away. 
And  the  hot  cocoa  remained  to  wash  down  the  pie.  Then 
they  sat  down  to  look  at  it,  and  looked  at  each  other 
instead.  That  brought  tears  and  laughter  most  wonder- 
fully blended ;  it  brought  the  two  from  the  stiff,  hard 
chairs  before  the  table  to  that  horsehair-covered  easy 
which  had  seen  the  gambols  and  sorrows  of  so  many 
lodgers.  It  brought  them  to  each  other's  arms,  and  the 
pie  became  cold,  cold,  fit  for  the  back  of  the  fire,  where  pre- 
sently they  placed  two  wedges.  An  offering,  this,  to  the 
prescience  of  that  statesman  who  discovered  that  England 
was  ripe  for  a  new  and  resonant  patriotism.  A  salve,  too, 
for  consciences  uneasy  at  the  lapse. 

Again  peace  stood  with  these  two — trust,  the  love  that 
still  was  theirs. 


CHAPTER  V 

"  POSTED  " 

DAILY  during  the  months  which  had  elapsed  since 
O'Hagan  reached  home,  notices  had  appeared  in  the 
shipping  papers  giving  the  "  Doctors'  "  view  of  Jimmy 
Barlow's  will-o'-the-wisp  move  to  a  New  World. 

"Casa  Blanca"  they  said  without  change  in  phrase, 
"  London.  May  20,  for  Valparaiso.  Boat  found  in  50° 
45'  S.,  66°  50'  W."  Then  followed  the  enigmatic  figures 
which  in  January  stood  at  fifty  guineas  per  cent.,  in 
March  at  eighty  guineas  and  in  June  at  ninety-five. 
There  were  those  behind  the  scenes  who  knew  what  this 
progression  meant ;  but  there  were  others  who  did  not, 
who  never  saw  them  and  upon  whom  the  final  announce- 
ment came  with  crashing  force. 

On  the  10th  of  June  there  appeared  a  small  explanatory 
notice  which  said  that  on  that  day  the  Casa  Blanca  was 
"  posted."  To  be  "  posted  "  means  to  be  lost,  to  be 
among  those  who  are  written  off  as  Missing,  who  have 
vanished  somehow,  somewhere,  and  cannot  be  found. 

The  little  tug  made  her  plunge  on  this  day  in  good  com- 
pany. Two  other  stupids  who  had  managed  to  get  mis- 
laid, swallowed  or  knocked  into  a  cocked-hat  on  some 
forgotten  rock,  gave  her  countenance.  They  were  bigger 
than  the  Casa  Blanca  and  should  have  known  better.  Of 
course  they  had  all  vanished  long  ago,  months  ago,  but 
this  was  a  recognition  of  the  fact — the  only  recognition 
they  were  likely  to  receive — that  they  were  missing  ships. 
Between  them  on  a  moderate  calculation  they  had 
accounted  for  seventy  or  seventy-five  Bottle-fillers  of  the 
tramp  brand  with  one  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred 
dependants.  On  the  ships  and  cargo  full  value  would  be 
paid.  On  the  Bottle-fillers  not  a  stiver  without  a  fight. 
A  modest  hundred  or  so  could  be  scrambled  for,  carried 
from  Court  to  Court  by  wealthy  corporations  acting  for 
shareholders  against  widows  or  mothers  or  sisters  who 
held  outrageous  views  about  the  value  of  a  dead  Bottle- 


"  POSTED  "  299 

filler.  Bene !  Against  all  these  a  word  is  framed. 
"  Fight."  And  in  the  dim  distance  a  plaintiff  may  be 
seen  escaping  with  a  solatium  scarcely  fat  enough  to 
satisfy  the  law  costs  incurred  in  winning  it.  Better  in  all 
cases  to-day  to  agree  to  be  made  quiet  beyond  the  walls. 

Jimmy  Barlow's  widow  could  not  hope  to  win  even  on 
terms  such  as  these,  for  Jimmy  Barlow,  to  all  intents, 
was  Henry  Tompson.  The  builders  of  missing  Casa 
Blanco,  had  never  heard  of  Jimmy  Barlow,  and  were 
sufficiently  angry  at  the  loss  which  they  recognised. 
The  Chilean  owner's  agent  scoffed  openly.  He  at  least 
knew  of  no  obligation  which  would  compel  compensation. 
Without  means  to  engage  a  lawyer  you  cannot  fight. 
Your  case  cannot  be  prepared.  If  you  bring  it  unaided  you 
will  lose  by  the  mere  fact  of  your  incompetence  to  plead. 

Therefore,  Jimmy  Barlow's  widow  did  what  other 
women  have  done,  and  will  still  do — she  rented  a  room 
again  in  East  London  and  sat  down  with  her  girls  to  make 
shirts.  Not  until  the  end  appeared,  which  surely  would 
come  upon  her  if  she  remained  in  the  country,  did  she  do 
this.  Not  until  hope  was  gone  on  every  hand,  debt 
begun,  hunger  already  stirring.  Then  in  consultation 
with  the  O'Hagans  she  found  her  way  back  to  her  attic 
and  gave  it  out  that  she  was  ready  to  "  take  up  her  old 
connection  "  with  those  whose  province  it  is  to  find  some 
portion  of  the  material  and  to  pay  as  little  as  may  be  for 
the  balance  and  the  work. 

It  was  nearly  the  end  of  June  when  this  happened,  and 
in  a  sense  O'Hagan's  burden  was  increased.  The  sun 
shone  merrily  on  city  and  country  alike.  It  was  pleasant 
on  the  hills  beyond  town,  but  in  the  streets  heat  radiated 
and  became  a  burden.  The  smoke  canopy  which  arches 
London  keeps  out  in  still  weather  the  freshness  which 
comes  with  night ;  the  lights,  the  fires,  the  escaping 
steam  add  to  the  oppression.  There  is  no  cool  borderland 
of  lawn  or  shrubs  or  garden  in  Bearsted  Road  ;  no  space 
for  tents  or  chairs  ;  no  seclusion.  From  the  wide-open 
window  on  their  side  the  O'Hagans  could  see  what  passed 
in  rooms  across  the  way.  If  trees  or  gardens  existed  for 
those  who  live  in  that  district,  they  are  of  the  "  allotment  " 
type,  far  off,  in  the  derelict  space  formed  by  the  fork  of 
railway  lines,  behind  a  bank  of  Regent's  Canal,  or  on  a 
slope,  otherwise  impossible,  littered  with  patched  tool 
sheds,  bits  of  fences  and  decayed  tins  as  ordered  and 


300  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

considered  excellent  by  Parliament  and  the  King's 
ministers. 

Tired  labourers  sometimes  visited  these  places,  stood 
and  smoked  a  while,  surveying  a  desert  of  cabbage  stumps 
and  refuse.  Wives,  children  and  men  strayed  past  on 
holidays,  conscious  of  the  failure  of  their  '  garding,'  and 
came  by  slow  method  to  Victoria  Park,  where  a  band 
plays  and  there  are  seats  for  tired  humanity.  And  here 
occasionally  O'Hagan  pushed  Baba's  carriage  until  he 
learned  to  know  the  boy  dreaded  the  march  it  entailed 
through  crowded  streets.  The  clamour  made  by  big  and 
small  children  playing  in  the  gutter  and  hopping  through 
a  strange  game  on  the  pavement  frightened  him.  He 
was  used  to  ship-noises,  but  not  to  the  noises  of  London's 
gamins.  He  soon  learned  to  say — 

"  Not  darden,  Mamie.  .  .  .  Baba  not  like  a  darden, 
Dada  .  .  ."  and  that  sufficed.  They  saw  he  shrank  from 
the  screams.  Perhaps  especially  it  sufficed  when  he  learned 
to  plead — "  Baba  like  see  wawa,"  which  meant  water  or 
river — perhaps  both  to  the  small  autocrat  who  ruled. 

Even  from  this  Eldorado  O'Hagan  came  back  ruffled 
and  hot  to  the  place  they  called  home,  Lucy  accompanying 
him,  smiling  at  his  disgust.  The  child  had  ordered  it. 
He  seemed  to  nerve  himself  for  the  shouts  which  even 
this  route  entailed  ;  remembering  he  was  going  to  the 
river.  To  peep  at  it  from  the  end  of  a  ragged  pier,  for  as 
yet  no  embankment  exists  for  the  draggle-tailed  East- 
Ender,  to  watch  for  a  while  the  moving  ships. 

When  O'Hagan  came  here  first  he  purchased  a  map  and 
found  a  space  called  Ropemaker's  Fields  which  at  once 
inspired  him.  He  discovered  it  to  be  a  street — unbeauti- 
ful,  and  he  searched  for  no  further  hints.  He  marched 
and  found  Narrow  Street,  then  Broad  Street,  thorough- 
fares of  Limehouse  and  Ratcliff — he  examined  the  Isle  of 
Dogs,  a  space  with  a  luminous  name  he  thought  he  knew, 
and  found  it  a  wilderness.  Docks  and  warehouses,  mean 
streets,  mean  wharves,  noisy,  chuffing  railways  existed  in 
profusion  ;  a  wilderness  where  no  sane  dog  would  stay 
ten  minutes  unchained.  No — the  Isle  of  Dogs  which  had 
seen  the  Casa  Blanco,  start  for  the  New  World  would 
scarcely  do  as  a  playground  for  Baba  who  resented 
noise. 

Sometimes  the  Tower  Hamlets  and  City  of  London 
Cemetery  took  them  in  and  gave  them  what  peace  may 


"  POSTED  "  301 

be  found  amidst  acres  of  strange  tombs.  But  much 
oftener  they  made  their  way  to  the  riverside  and  learned 
to  be  content  with  such  peeps  as  the  warehouses  permitted. 

Quaint  bits  of  old  London  faced  them  here,  strange  and 
fascinating  glimpses  of  that  river  which  had  borne  them 
home.  Down  Limehouse  Reach  they  got  a  notion  of 
Greenwich  trees,  the  Park  and  Hospital ;  up,  they  came 
upon  the  Pool  famous  for  all  time.  Steamers  trailed  by, 
barges  plunged  and  tacked,  throwing  showers  of  spray, 
launches  swept  to  and  fro  challenigng  the  tides. 

Narrow  often,  indescribably  rickety  and  dirty  often, 
are  the  spots  which  command  a  view.  Yet  here  the 
O'Hagans  walked  to  give  Baba  the  air  he  seemed  to  miss. 
Here  they  learned  to  remember  a  phrase  he  tumbled  at 
them — "  Babee  wahed,"  and  wondered  what  it  meant. 
And  presently  Lucy  resolved  the  puzzle  with  the  question, 
"  Tired  ?  "  and  the  child  with  screwed-up  lips  gave  back — 
"  Esss." 

And  it  was  here  they  thought  they  saw  him  fade. 
They  recollected,  with  a  start  of  dismay,  he  no  longer 
seemed  keen  on  his  food, and  the  challenging  cry,  "How's 
the  kiddie,  oh  dearest  ?  "  with  which  for  months  they  had 
met,  took  a  note  which  it  had  not  touched  before.  It 
sounded  a  little  wistful  at  first,  then,  as  the  heat  became 
more  oppressive,  concern  crept  in,  and  Den  one  night,  as 
he  stared  at  the  white  face  which  once  had  been  so  brown, 
whispered  that  he  would  have  to  go  and  find  a  doctor. 

That  made  Lucy  start. 

She  gathered  the  dear  mite  in  her  arms  and  carried 
him  to  the  window.  He  lay  blinking  at  the  light,  but  the 
pallor  was  more  distinct.  "  Babee  wahed,"  he  said, 
drowsily. 

"  Oh  !  you  don't  think  .  .  .  Den,  you  don't  .  .  ." 
Lucy  whispered,  and  got  no  farther.  Her  voice  broke. 
She  moved  swiftly,  her  eyes  veiled,  staring  from  one  to 
the  other  with  the  quick  and  penetrating  glance  of  a  soul 
suddenly  alive  to  fear.  .  .  .  "  Oh  !  Den — it  can't  be  that 
.  .  .  we  have  only  had  him  such  a  little  while  .  .  .  and 
he  is  just  beginning  to  talk  and  run.  .  .  .  Dearest !  what 
can  it  be  ?  What  must  we  do  ...  we  simply  can't  have 
him  ill — can't,  dearest — can't  .  .  ." 

O'Hagan  drew  her  to  a  chair  and  persuaded  her  to 
sit,  and  Lucy  bent  over  the  child,  rocking  slowly,  the 
tears  blinding  her.  ,  .  .  **  Mamie's  darling.  .  .  ,  Mamie's 


302  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

ownest.  .  .  .  Go,  Den,  go  and  find  him.  .  .  ."  Then  as 
the  boy  stirred,  opening  his  eyes,  she  leaned  down  to 
listen. 

"  Mamie  sing  oh  Babee,"  said  the  child. 

Mamie  sing !  Mamie's  heart  was  breaking  even  as 
Den's,  while  they  watched  the  first  surrender  to  the  law 
which  bids  us  sleep  when  we  are  tired  ;  when  we  have  been 
driven  ;  when  in  the  dark,  beyond  our  ken,  the  Messenger 
stands  and  bids  us  prepare. 

"Mamie  sing  oh  Babee,"  came  the  demand  once  more, 
and  with  her  sweet  voice  thrilling,  Lucy  obeyed — 

"  Over  the  ditch 
Slip,  little  witch- 
Off  to  rest  and  Dreamland, 
Carrying  dear  Teddy, 
Yellow-brown  Teddy, 
To  laugh  with  you  in  Cloud — Cloud  .  .  . 

Then  in  a  sudden  tempest  the  soft  voice  broke,  and  there 
came  to  halt  Den — 

"  Can't — can't,    oh    dearest !      Can't    sing    that    any 

more  .  .  .  if " 

Baba's  dark  eyes  looked  up  wondering  at  the  thrill 
which  shook  him.  A  small  smile  escaped  and  Lucy 
leaned  over  whispering  the  phrases  which  leap  unre- 
hearsed from  the  soul  of  the  mother  to  the  soul  of  a  child. 
And  in  the  midst  of  them  Den  bent  down  to  say — "  I  shall 
go  at  once  and — and  find  a  man.  I'll  bring  him  back  with 
me." 

But  it  took  long  to  find  any  man  ready  to  come  instantly 
to  a  case  showing  so  little  urgency.  When  he  arrived  it 
was  nearly  dark.  Baba  slept,  and  observation  revealed 
but  suggestions  from  which  the  learned  may  dogmatise. 

Nothing  very  serious  at  the  moment,  at  all  events. 
Measles,  of  course,  were  rather  troublesome  just  now,  as 
no  doubt  the  O'Hagans  knew  .  .  .  infantile  colic  and  other 
bothers  accounted  for  a  number  of  lives  down  here.  The 
still  air,  you  see,  dust  laden,  crammed  with  germs  .  .  . 
a  difficulty  that,  more  especially  in  the  crowded  areas. 
Poor  little  chap  .  .  .  respiration  getting  a  bit  thick  .  .  . 
ought  to  have  been  away  a  week  ago  .  .  .  but  not  now 
.  .  .  not  noAv. 

Again,  as  he  stood  by  the  window  facing  the  traffic,  he 
emphasised  this  view. 

"  Just  look  at  it  .  .  .  the  new  era  they  call  it.     Deadly, 


"  POSTED  "  308 

sir — quite  deadly  for  certain  organisms.  We  can  only 
guess  at  a  tithe  of  the  trouble  that  will  come.  Have  you, 
for  instance,  assimilated  the  fact  that  cattle  refuse  to 
touch  the  dust-strewn  strips  of  pasturage  which  lie  beside 
a  high  road  ?  Cattle — and  sheep,  too — know  what  they 
are  about  better  than  we  do.  They  aren't  fools,  if  we  are. 
.  .  .  Throats,  eyes  and  noses  will  suffer  presently.  .  .  . 
It  stands  to  reason,  when  you  consider  it — by  the  way, 
has  the  little  man  associated  with  other  children  at  all— 
any  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  No — we  know  no  one  here." 

"  Quite.  Well — let  him  sleep.  Don't  disturb  him  on 
any  account  now  he  is  asleep  " — he  laid  great  stress  on 
this — "  and  keep  him  warm."  O'Hagan  stared.  "  I  will 
send  you  a  little  mixture  presently,  which  will  help  him, 
and  at  about  eleven  to-morrow  I  will  look  in  again." 

In  the  passage,  as  he  made  his  way  to  the  door,  he 
confided  to  O'Hagan — "  It  looks  like  measles.  We  are 
run  off  our  legs  with  it  in  Limehouse  just  now.  Pity  you 
had  to  bring  him  here  at  this  season.  .  .  .  Good-night." 

And  so  to  other  bedsides  ;  one  who  divines  for  us  from 
symptoms  how  we  stand  with  regard  to  to-morrow ; 
who,  had  he  been  one  of  those  "  doctors  "  who  practise  at 
Lloyd's,  would  have  marked  this  case  for  reinsurance  at 
seventy-five  per  cent,  premium  without  intermediate 
stages. 

Seventy-five  per  cent,  to  insure  against  Baba's  recovery. 

Neither  Lucy  nor  Den  knew  this.  They  waited  patiently 
in  the  early  hours  of  this  trial ;  in  despair  as  it  drew  out. 
They  saw  no  kindling  in  Baba's  glance  ;  they  saw  his 
cold  develop,  his  eyes  grow  filmed  ;  heard  the  wail  which 
speaks  of  weariness,  and  sat  in  turn  to  guard  and  tend  him. 

Through  the  still  nights  while  London  sleeps,  through 
the  crass  day  when  it  wakes  and  works,  they  watched  in 
turn,  counting  the  hours  till  a  crisis  passed.  Lucy  sang 
his  song ;  Den  attempted  it.  Then  one  noon,  the  sun 
standing  high  over  Bearsted  Road,  Doctor  Charlton  came 
aad  stayed  long,  watching  the  ebbing  life. 

No  hope  for  Baba  ;  no  gleam  ;  no  fleeting,  transitory 
ray — only  the  dust  which  was  killing  him,  the  shouts  and 
car  jangle  which  kept  him  startled  ;  the  voices  of  those 
who  wrangle  and  barter  and  make  love  in  one  dull  shout 
which  reaches  out  and  blends  with  the  drone  of  London. 
No  hope.  Baba's  life  ebbing,  complications  stubbornly 


304  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

refusing  to  yield  to  treatment  ,  .  .  and  the  knowledge 
that  this  place  had  done  it. 

"As  it  has  thousands,  Captain  O'Hagan,"  Charlton 
emphasised  over  the  stricken  man.  "  Thousands.  .  .  . 
Let  me  take  you  for  a  run.  They  tell  me  you  are  off  duty 
now — well,  an  hour  will  do  you  good.  Come  !  You 
mustn't  break  down  too,  or  there  will  be  the  devil  to  pay 
next  time  I  come.  ..." 

But  O'Hagan  thrust  away  his  offer.  He  desired  to  be 
alone.  He  wanted  to  think.  He  said  that  he  had  neglected 
his  work,  and  had  an  appalling  amount  to  get  through. 
He  must  run  away  and  do  it  at  once. 

"  Where  ?  "  he  turned  swiftly,  reiterating  it.  "  Up  in 
the  city.  Work  connected  with  my  case,  you  remember." 
Charlton  had  no  knowledge  of  the  subject.  He  imagined 
O'Hagan  was  in  port  with  his  ship.  "  No  one  can  do  it 
for  me,"  O'Hagan  went  on.  "  I  shall  be  away  two  or  three 
hours — safe,  I  suppose  !  "  his  voice  broke. 

"  Yes  ...  it  will  happen  to-night  .  .  .  tide-time.  .  .  . 
Come  and  have  a  smoke  with  me  when  you  get  back." 

"  Could  you  smoke  if  ...  if "  O'Hagan  broke  out. 

"  No,"  said  Charlton,  "  I  couldn't." 

O'Hagan  passed,  carrying  a  malacca,  which  cut  the  air 
with  the  song  of  a  whip,  as  he  moved  swiftly  to  catch  a  train. 

Fifteen  minutes  watching  an  engine  advance  by  stages 
to  Fenchurch  Street  did  not  provide  an  atmosphere  calcu- 
lated to  calm  him.  He  entered  the  carriage  throbbing, 
he  left  it  in  a  white  heat  and  took  his  way  direct  to  that 
office  which  stood  midway  down  Longman  Avenue.  He 
knew  it  now  as  well  as  Lucy  had  learned  to  know  it.  He 
knew  it  with  a  hatred  which  kept  him  silent,  which  stood 
over  him  whispering  advice,  telling  him  how  he  should 
proceed  and  conterminously  warning  him  of  the  danger  he 
ran  in  approaching  it. 

Yet  he  came  to  it  now  swinging  a  cane,  grim  with  the 
anguish  of  days,  as  ready  to  spring  as  a  beast  whose  lair 
has  been  robbed  of  a  cub. 

He  climbed  the  steps  and  moved  through  the  swiag 
door.  A  commissionaire  met  him,  wearing  medals  as  on 
that  day  when  Lucy  entered,  and  said  in  answer  to  the 
visitor's  question — 

"  I  am  not  sure,  sir."  He  took  up  a  receiver  and 
reached  for  pencil  and  paper.  "  What  name  shall  I  say  ?  " 

"  O'Hagan." 


"  POSTED  "  305 

The  commissionaire  looked  up.  "  Captain  O'Hagan  ?  " 
he  asked,  his  eyes  on  the  bronzed  and  clean-shaven  face 
of  this  caller  who  stood  over  him. 

"  Yes." 

The  man  made  no  sign.  He  was  taking  in  a  message 
from  the  office  beyond.  He  recognised  at  once  that  he 
was  confronted  by  one  of  those  people  he  must  keep  out  ; 
who  in  no  case  might  be  permitted  to  enter.  He  hung  up 
the  receiver  and  said — 

"  Sorry,  sir,  but  Mr.  Sharum  is  engaged." 

"  I  will  give  him  ten  minutes,"  O'Hagan  answered, 
pulling  out  his  watch. 

Again  the  man  said — "  Sorry,  sir — but  he  won't  be  at 
liberty  till  after  four  o'clock.  Be  so  kind  as  to  make  an 
appointment." 

"  No,"  said  O'Hagan.  "  My  business  won't  wait,"  and 
he  pushed  through  a  second  door.  The  commissionaire 
seized  him. 

Instantly,  as  it  appeared  to  those  standing  beside 
desks,  there  was  a  struggle  in  which  several  joined. 
O'Hagan  wrenched  free  and  struck  out.  The  commis- 
sionaire stumbled,  fell,  while  the  others  closed  in.  O'Hagan 
with  his  back  to  a  partition  marked  their  coming  and 
cried — "  Not  too  near.  I  don't  stand  crowding.  You 
have  your  duty  to  perform  and  I  have  mine."  The 
commissionaire  was  on  his  feet,  white  and  panting.  "  I 
am  going  to  see  Sharum  I  "  the  clear  voice  proclaimed. 
"  I'll  see  him  quietly  if  he  likes,  or  I  will  make  a  noise  over 
it.  ...  Ah — you  would  !  Stand  back  !  " 

Again  he  hit  out,  and  a  clerk  who  had  rushed  in  went 
down.  There  was  huge  clamour  at  once.  Desks  were 
slammed  and  men  sprang  to  the  assistance  of  those  who 
had  fallen.  And  in  the  scrimmage  O'Hagan  was  dragged 
down  and  handed  over  to  the  police. 

The  Mansion  House  took  charge  of  him. 

Again  there  was  quiet  at  the  offices  of  Sharums,  Limited, 
clerks  bending  over  ledgers,  heads  of  departments  obsessed 
by  the  weight  of  affairs.  In  Sharum's  room  quiet  too,  the 
quiet  of  a  man  who  questions  the  management  of  a  Master 
of  Industry. 

Peter  Witterspoon,  negligent  and  at  his  ease,  showed 
that  he  was  not  pleased  with  his  friend.  He  rarely 
minced  with  words.  To-day  he  was  unusually  distinct — • 

B.F  x 


306  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  You  are  boggling  this  thing,"  he  said  definitely.  "  To 
gratify  your  amour-propre  or  something  I  don't  under- 
stand, you  are  going  to  be  hauled  through  the  Courts. 
There  will  be  some  nasty  explanations.  I  know  the  law, 
and  I  don't  like  explanations.  '  Agree  with  thine  adver- 
sary while  he  is  in  the  way,'  is  my  notion  of  business. 
Why  on  earth  let  this  fellow  handle  a  muck-rake  now  ? 
Things  are  different  for  you  to-day,  easy,  if  I  may  say  so. 
What,  then,  is  the  use  of  pursuing  a  game  that  will  land 
you  in  annoyance  ? — me,  too,  if  I  know  anything  of  the 
power  of  a  cross-examiner." 

"  You  suggest  that  I  am  acting  out  of  petty  spite," 
Sharum  said  stiffly. 

"  True.  I  thought  you  were  bigger — but,  as  I  told  you, 
I  knew  these  folk  before,  and,  to  be  quite  straight,  I 
resent  persecution.  ..." 

Sharum  fidgeted  in  his  chair,  crossing  and  uncrossing 
his  legs.  "  I  should  be  sorry  to  indulge  in  it,"  he  said. 
"  The  notion  has  not  arisen  in  my  mind." 

"  You  charged  him  with  drunkenness,  when  you  knew 
he  was  sober,"  Witterspoon  rapped  out. 

"  I  relied  on  my  agent's  report.  I  was  compelled  to 
use  the  plea." 

"  Defended  yourself,  in  other  words,  at  the  expense  of  a 
damned  good  man,"  Witterspoon  commented. 

He  got  up,  found  a  cigarette  and  crossed  to  his  chair, 
lighting  it.  "  You  put  him  out  of  the  Strathmuir,  didn't 
you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  McClure  was  satisfied  with  him  too,  I  heard  ?  " 

"  I  had  to  consider  the  result  of  my  silence  in  the  case 
of  the  mate — and  the  subsequent  loss  of  Casa  Blanca." 

Witterspoon  nodded.  "  Well,  now,  that  looks  to  me  a 
bit  like  persecution,  but,"  he  threw  the  match  towards 
the  fireplace,  watched  as  it  fell  short  and  rose  to  complete 
the  operation,  "  but,  what  is  to  be  the  upshot  now — 
going  to  prosecute  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  option." 

"  I  don't  agree ;  but  take  it  at  that.  You  remember, 
of  course,  things  will  be  said  about  the  Sphinx  ?  " 

"  What  things  ?  " 

Sharum  in  spite  of  his  calm  was  angry.  By  his  pallor, 
his  immobility,  this  was  apparent,  and  Witterspoon 
noted  it. 


"  POSTED  "  307 

"  What  things  ?  "  he  repeated  rather  aggressively  for 
one  in  the  swim.  "  Oh  well — that  she  was  unscaworthy 
with  a  deckload  for  one  thing.  That  another  skipper, 
Tipton,  left  her  because  of  it.  Tipton  will  come  forward 
to  prove  it.  They  will  swear  that  Tipton  had  three  or 
four  hundred  sunk  in  her,  and  two  other  skippers,  it 
appears,  had  similar  amounts  .  .  .  that  you  got  rid  of 
them — I  am  giving  you  what  will  be  sworn  to — got  rid 
of  them  when  you  had  their  money  tight  .  .  .  and,  mind 
you,  I  think  this  the  ugliest  bit  of  it  all — when  O'Hagan 
invested  his  five  hundred,  or  whatever  it  was,  you  failed 
to  notify  him  of  the  fact  that  the  Sphinx  was  mortgaged 
up  to  the  hilt  .  .  .  you — good  Lord — man,  you  don't 
mean  to  tell  me  you  can  afford  to  let  that  sort  of  thing 
come  out  ?  " 

"  It  would  not  1  "  Sharum  stung  back,  "  come  out  as 
you  choose  to  put  it.  You  seem  to  ignore  my  view 
entirely.  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  here  to  learn,"  Witterspoon  interrupted,  smoking 
and  at  his  ease. 

Sharum,  for  the  first  time,  showed  annoyance ;  he 
leaned  forward  in  his  chair  and  banged  the  table. 

"  I  decline  to  go  into  it  now.  It  is  complicated  and 
much  too  long  for  a  chance  conversation,  if  it  be  chance." 
He  waited  for  this  to  sink  in,  but  Witterspoon  made  no 
comment.  "  You  seem,"  Sharum  resumed,  "  to  have 
been  at  some  pains  to  discover  the  other  side.  I  don't 
know  that  I  call  it  altogether  loyal  to  <  .  ." 

"  Never  mind  that !  "  Witterspoon  interjected.  "  I 
want  you  to  come  out  of  an  impossible  position.  I  want 
you  to  refuse  to  prosecute  that  chap  to-morrow  and  let 
him  be  discharged.  He  will  be  slurred  deeply  enough  by 
that,  if  you  want  to  slur  him.  Further,"  he  spoke  very 
clearly  here,  "  I  want  you  to  write  to  him.  .  .  ." 

"Him?    Who?" 

"  O'Hagan  .  .  .  and  say  that  you  regret  the  stupidity 
which  caused  the  scene.  Say  your  men  exceeded  their 
duty — anything  you  like,  and  offer  him  command  of  one 
of  your  boats  .  .  .  Griselda,  for  instance,  in  compensa- 
tion .  .  ." 

"  What  ?  "  Sharum  banged  again  over  this  and 
instantly  rose.  He  crossed  to  the  fire  and  stood  warming 
his  back  ;  but  he  was  not  cold. 

"  I  was  fairly  concise,"  said  Peter  Witterspoon. 

x  t 


308  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  And  if  I  refuse  ?  " 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  my  friend,"  Witterspoon  intoned 
through  cigarette  smoke,  "  I'm  getting  a  bit  fed  up  with 
shipping.  .  .  ." 

"  Fed  up  !     Tired  of  fifty  per  cent.  ?  " 

"  Not  if  it's  clean." 

The  shipowner  moved  uneasily  by  the  fireplace.  He  had 
come  from  small  beginnings  by  the  aid  of  this  man's 
purse  to  a  position  of  assured  future.  He  was  wealthy. 
Three  years'  boom,  coupled  with  the  knowledge  that 
millions  lay  to  his  hand,  coupled  again  with  the  strong 
brain  which  had  manipulated  events,  had  put  Sharum  on  a 
pedestal.  It  had  placed  him  where  he  was  more  easily 
assoiled  than  in  those  days  when  he  stood  on  the  floor.  He 
knew  this  was  so.  He  knew,  too,  that  Peter  Witterspoon 
was  prepared  to  go  all  lengths  in  defence  of  these  people. 
He  was  not  ready  to  pay  him  out.  It  would  be  incon- 
venient— but  "  not  if  it's  clean  "  rankled.  In  spite  of 
his  anxiety  he  squirmed  over  this.  "  Oh,  come,"  he 
complained,  "  I  don't  think  you  are  fair.  .  .  ." 

"  It  scarcely  bears  discussion,  Sharum,"  Witterspoon 
interjected.  "  I  came  upon  it  by  chance.  Happened  to 
know  Miss  Faulkner  in  India,  you  recollect.  Never  met 
O'Hagan  himself  ;  I  don't  know  what  he's  like  ;  but  I 
don't  care  to  be  mixed  up  in  Jew  tricks  like  that  invest- 
ment of  his.  It  hasn't  quite  a  nice  sound.  I  don't  know 
much  of  business  .  .  .  ship  business,  anyhow  .  .  .  and 
don't  want  to  ...  it  sounds  dirty.  .  .  . 

"  Think  it  over.  Give  the  poor  devil  a  job  .  .  .  Damn 
it !  you  don't  want  to  starve  a  chap  because  he  happens  to 
be  a  skipper  you  have  rounded  up  ...  starve  his  wife 
.  .  .  his  kid,  by  Jove.  .  .  .  What  ?  Look  here  .  .  . 
you  seem  to  be  top  dog  these  days  " — again  with  excessive 
clarity  Witterspoon  pictured  the  situation.  "  Once,  I 
believe,  it  was  the  other  way  about — but  you  are  too  big 
to  play  to  the  gallery  that  fashion.  And  I  have  made  you 
big  .  .  .  given  you  your  chance,  and  yet  ..."  He 
shrugged,  threw  away  his  cigarette,  and  stood  ready  to 
go.  He  tapped  one  boot  with  his  cane  and  Sharum  came 
to  a  decision.  Behind  the  veil  he  had  scarcely  raised,  his 
mind  was  at  work — figuring  out  results.  He  was  not 
ready,  yet  the  question  he  put  was — 

"  Why  the  Griselda  ?  " 

A  ray  of  light  crossed  the  room  and  fell  on  the  blue 


"  POSTED  "  809 

Delft  bowl  over  there  by  the  wall.  "  Happens  to  be  at 
home  and  minus  a  skipper,  I  understand,"  Peter  Witter- 
spoon  smiled,  crossing  to  stare  at  the  colour. 

"  I  thought  you  knew  nothing  about  ships  ?  "  Sharum 
sneered. 

"I  know,"  Witterspoon  hit  back  swiftly,  turning,  "just 
what  I  find  it  essential  to  know,  when  I'm  dabbling  in  a 
thing.  When  I'm  tired  of  it  I  know  nothing."  His  hand 
was  lifted,  carrying  the  eyeglass  he  had  used.  "  Well," 
he  smiled.  "  Think  it  out  and  let  me  know  later.  ..." 

"  No  necessity,"  Sharum  growled.  "  One  way  or 
another,  I  will  do  what  you  wish.  ..." 

"  Good.  That's  awfully  decent  of  you.  I  knew  you 
would.  I  could  have  sworn  to  it." 

And  again  the  Master  of  Industry  shrugged  over  the 
phrase  which  fell — "  Could  you  ?  " 

It  sounded  like  a  sneer.  But  Peter  Witterspoon  left 
the  office  unimpressed,  and  hummed  away  west  until  he 
reached  the  bank.  Here,  with  the  help  of  a  constable, 
who  held  up  the  traffic,  he  executed  a  change  of  course 
which  took  him  east ;  and  Sharum's  confidential  clerk 
who  had  followed  in  a  cab  was  able  to  return  with  the  report 
his  master  desired. 

Sharum  was  perturbed.  He  showed  it  by  marching  up 
and  down  his  room,  not  fast,  but  as  a  heavy  man  moves. 
Gone  east  again  !  The  Griselda,  of  all  ships  in  the  fleet ! 
The  man's  daft.  Doesn't  he  know  that  the  Griselda  is 
another  of  those  rollers  that  can't  stand  up  with  a  deck- 
load  ...  or  does  he 

For  five  minutes  Sharum  stood  with  his  thought, 
rolling  it  like  wine  on  his  palate,  twisting  it,  testing  it, 
then  quickly  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  round  to  the 
Mansion  House  to  see  O'Hagan. 

"  This  thing,"  he  said,  as  he  walked,  "  must  be  settled. 
It  has  gone  too  far." 

At  half-past  four  he  was  again  in  his  office.  He  sat 
over  a  cup  of  tea  strong  enough  to  tan  his  waistcoat,  as 
perhaps  it  did — but  he  did  not  blink.  His  critics  said  he 
drank  tea  which  could  be  used  as  seed.  He  said,  with  a 
maltreatment  of  Shelley  which  was  scandalous— 

"  The  seed  ye  sow  another  reaps. 
The  seed  I  sow  just  finds  me  sheeps." 

Argument  with  a  man  of  that  type  is  beyond  the  range. 


CHAPTER  VI 

TIDE-TIME 

PETER  WITTERSPOON  lunged  east  in  his  car,  facing  the 
dust  and  blare  of  Commercial  Road  with  cool  indifference. 
He  had  decided  to  ignore  Lucy's  wishes.  He  could 
remain  away  no  longer  now  that  it  was  certain  new  trouble 
had  assailed  her.  He  could  not  understand  this  dash  of 
O'Hagan's,  a  fool-dash,  he  termed  it,  unless  it  meant  that 
something  had  occurred  which  suddenly  had  driven  him 
mad. 

For  weeks  Witterspoon  had  obeyed  Lucy's  command — 
weeks  which  had  turned  grey  for  him  the  thing  he  knew 
as  "life  " — left  him  weary,  wrung.  But  now  he  must  see 
her  again,  talk  with  her,  hear  from  her  dear  lips  that  all 
was  well ;  or  if  it  were  ill,  that  she  would  allow  him  to  do 
something  to  justify  his  existence  as  a  friend.  He  was 
alert  as  ever,  keen,  but  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  disaster 
he  could  not  understand.  Something  had  happened ;  if 
that  were  not  so  why  was  O'Hagan  now  locked  up  for  the 
Lord  Mayor  to  trounce  and  sentence  to-morrow  ? 

Was  it  not  obvious  that  Lucy  stood  in  need  of  an  adviser 
at  this  moment  and  that  she  required  help  ?  Again — • 
was  she  not  alone  ? 

The  bridge  which  crosses  Regent's  Canal,  that  dismal 
waterway  which  Baba  would  not  accept  as  his  river, 
brought  Witterspoon  suddenly  to  the  acknowledged 
danger  of  a  car  moving  fast  through  streets  lately  drenched 
with  water.  He  skidded  slightly  on  the  tram  lines, 
recovered  and  grazed  the  wheels  of  a  lorry  crawling 
towards  the  docks.  He  came  past  the  church  which 
reminds  the  pulsing  thousands  of  every  quarter  lost  to 
time ;  sought  out  a  turning  place  and  ran  to  the  door  of 
No.  45. 

Baba  was  not  at  the  window  to-day  to  wave  and 
smile  ;  no  Mamie,  no  maid  to  stare  with  pleasure  at  that 
wonderful  car  ;  but  a  woman  he  did  not  know  dressed  as 
a  nurse,  leaving  the  house. 


TIDE-TIME  311 

Peter  Witterspoon  locked  his  brakes  and  passed 
quickly  to  the  door.  He  was  not  the  dandy  and  rather 
critical  student  of  affairs  who  had  lately  sat  before 
Sharum  ;  but  a  man  carrying,  as  he  thought,  a  burden  no 
other  can  share.  He  mounted  the  steps,  entered  and 
climbed  the  stairs  as  had  been  his  custom  when  Baba 
waved  a  beckoning  hand.  He  came  to  their  door  and 
halted  over  it,  wondering  whether  he  should  open  or  seek 
the  maid. 

And  while  he  paused  Lucy  came  from  the  farther 
room  to  solve  the  problem.  She  crossed,  white  and  worn, 
to  intercept  her  husband. 

"  Den  !  "  she  whispered,  "  Come  quickly  .  .  .  where 
have  ..."  Then  ceased  and  said  with  a  note  of  despair 
— "  Oh  !  I  thought  it  was  Den  ...  I  thought  I  heard  his 
step  .  .  .  where  is  Den  ?  Where  is  he  ?  " 

He  caught  her  hands  and  held  her,  love  in  his  brain, 
love  burning  him,  bidding  him  take  her  now  that  oppor- 
tunity was  his  ;  but  the  sight  of  her  anguish  sobered  him 
and  brought  out  what  there  was  of  manliness  in  Peter 
Witterspoon. 

"  Steady,  dear  lady  .  .  .  steady,"  he  urged,  holding 
her  firmly.  "  O'Hagan  is  in  town  and  can't  get  back  yet. 
He — er — sent  me  to  see  you — er — to  find  out  what's 
wrong,  you  know.  He  said  he  would  be  detained  some 
time.  ..." 

Lucy  searched  his  eyes,  noting  the  halting  and  indirect 
speech. 

"  What's  wrong  ? "  she  repeated,  laughing  quite 
softly.  "  Can't  come  when  Baba's  dying  !  Can't  ?  .  .  . 
Nonsense !  That  is  not  true.  He  could  come.  He 
would  unless  something  has  happened  to  him.  Oh ! 
I  am  tired.  Don't  plague  me  ...  where  is  my  hus- 
band ?  " 

"  Baba  dying  !  "  was  his  comment.  "  Good  God  ! 
Let  me  help."  He  was  silent  as  to  O'Hagan  because  at 
the  moment  Lucy's  direct  statement  had  startled  him. 
"  Let  me  help,"  he  pleaded.  "  Tell  me  what  I  can  do. 
Dying !  Have  you  seen  anyone  .  .  .  and  why  in  the 
world  did  he  go  up  now  ?  .  .  ." 

"  You  are  holding  me !  "  she  urged,  striving  for  release. 

"  You  are  not  fit  to  stand  alone.  You  are  not  fit  for 
this,"  he  proclaimed. 

"  Yes— yes.     I  am  all  right  again.     Please  let  me  go." 


312  THE    BOTTLE-FILLERS 

He  obeyed,  but  kept  quite  near,  holding  out  his 
hands. 

"  At  least  tell  me  what  I  can  do,"  he  begged.  "  I  am 
not  a  stranger.  Let  me  help." 

"  No  one  can  help,"  she  uttered  with  a  calm  that 
staggered  him,  her  face  set,  weary  with  the  pain  she  had 
borne.  "  Baba  is  going  to — leave  us  ...  couldn't  stick 
it  here,  you  see,  so  God  is  taking  him  back,  taking  him 
back,"  she  reiterated,  her  gaze  suffused,  "  because  we 
couldn't  guard  him  .  .  .  taking  him  away  from  me — and 
Den  has  .  .  ." 

"  Lucy  !  " 

The  name  on  his  lips  startled  her.  But  she  looked  up, 
shaking  her  head,  dry -eyed,  yet  sobbing.  "Too  late  to 
do  things  now.  He's  going,"  she  whispered,  nodding 
over  the  words.  "  Perhaps  he  has  gone  ...  he  is  so 
still,  so  white  .  .  .  my  own  dear  Babal"  She  moved 
towards  the  door.  "  God  wanted  him  .  .  .  but  I  wanted 
him  more.  Perhaps  I  forgot  about  God  and  so  God  is 
punishing  me.  ..."  She  glanced  over  her  shoulder 
shuddering.  "London  has  killed  him,"  she  wailed  in  his 
ear  as  he  leaned  there  listening.  "  Jake  Hall  began  it 
...  it  broke  poor  Den,  and  after  that  came  Sharum  and 
the  Black  List  ...  I  wonder  whether  they  have  a  Black 
List  in  Heaven  ...  I  wonder  if  there  is  a  Heaven  or  if 
it  is  all  Hell — every  pathway  leading  to  it — all  the  foot- 
steps crowding  along  to  reach  it  ...  even  my  Baba's 
.  .  .  tiny  Baba's  .  .  .  Baba's  !  .  .  ." 

She  broke  down  with  the  iteration  of  his  name.  Sob- 
bing and  blind  with  tears  now,  she  ran  to  the  room  where 
stood  the  cot,  the  child  placid  upon  it.  She  sank  into 
the  old  horsehair  seated  chair  Den  had  placed  beside  it, 
and  said  in  tones  which  brought  the  blood  to  Peter 
Witterspoon's  heart — 

"  The  doctor  says  he  will  die  at  tide-time  ...  is  it 
tide-time  yet  ?  .  .  ."  She  leaned  over,  as  Witterspoon 
drew  near. 

"  Is  it  .  .  .  is  it  ?  "  she  cried  out.  "  He  is  still,  you 
see  ...  he  scarcely  breathes."  Then,  on  her  knees  by 
the  bedside — "  Den  !  Den  !  Den  !  Oh  why  did  you  go 
away  .  .  .  why  did  you  leave  us  now  ?  " 

"  Lucy  !  " 

Peter  Witterspoon  stood  over  her,  his  hand  on  her  head, 
his  brain  on  fire.  She  made  no  sign. 


TIDE-TIME  313 

Again  he  urged,  sinking  to  his  knees — "Look  up  ... 
I  have  something  to  say."  He  spoke  very  clearly,  his 
fingers  running  over  her  hair.  "  Captain  O'Hagan  was 
called  to  the  city.  Sharum  wanted  him.  Sharum  is 
going  to  give  him  command.  He  says  there  has  been  a 
mistake  and  he  will  rectify  it.  I  have  insisted  on  this. 
It  was  the  only  thing  I  could  do.  O'Hagan  will  be  back 
by  six  o'clock.  Let  me  help  you  in  the  meantime. 
Look  !  I  am  going  out  now,  you  understand  ?  to  find 
another  doctor.  If  your  husband  has  not  returned  when 
I  get  back,  I  will  go  and  fetch  him  with  the  car." 

He  found  her  hand  and  took  it.     She  made  no  sign. 
'  That  understood  ?  "   he  asked. 

With  a  small  pressure  she  signalled  assent. 

Peter  Witterspoon  rose  from  his  knees  and  left  the  room. 
He  came  down  the  stairs  clattering,  angry. 

"  Is  there  no  one  in  this  damned  house  "  he  asked  of 
the  grimy  passage,  "  who  can  sit  with  her  ?  " 

Pale  faces  appeared  behind  doors  held  ajar  at  his 
outcry.  Eyes  which  looked  scared,  and  from  one  of  the 
rooms  the  Marchioness  made  her  exit,  her  eyes  red,  her 
unclean  cap  awry.  "  If  you  please,  sir,"  she  volunteered, 
"  it  were  measles  an'  their  nurse  'ad  to  go  'ome." 

Witterspoon  seized  her  by  the  arm — "  Go  upstairs  and 
stay  with  her  until  I  get  back,"  he  commanded.  "  Be 

food  to  her."  He  pressed  a  sovereign  in  her  palm.  "  Mind ! 
am  trusting  you." 

With  that  he  ran  down  and  reached  his  car,  released 
her  and  moved  slowly  along  the  street  searching  for  a 
telephone  office.  He  found  one  in  East  India  Dock 
Road  and  sent  from  thence  a  message  to  Sir  Thomas 
Trauman,  the  children's  specialist.  Then  re-entering  his 
car,  started  on  the  three-mile  run  to  the  Mansion  House 
to  carry  out  his  promise. 

In  fifteen  minutes  he  had  covered  this  and  a  constable 
came  to  meet  him  as  he  drew  up. 

"  Officer  in  charge  1  "  Witterspoon  interjected  leaping 
to  the  ground.  "  Quick  as  you  like." 

"  This  way,  sir." 

The  man  led  to  a  room  within  which  sat  an  inspector 
and  other  constables. 

"  You  have  a  Captain  O'Hagan  here  .  .  .  some  silly 
row  in  Longman  Avenue.  Mistake  all  through,"  said 
Peter.  "  Is  it  possible  to  bail  him  out  ?  " 


314  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

'  Not  now,  sir.     It's  done,"  said  the  inspector. 

'  That  so— when  ?  " 

'  Only  just  gone." 

*  Who  by  ?  " 

'  Someone  from  the  office  ;  a  Mr.  Sharum,  who  had 
charged  him." 

"  Um  !  "  said  Peter  Witterspoon,  and  stood  at  fault, 
considering  what  he  should  do.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
Sharum  had  acted  rather  promptly,  and  there  came  a 
quickening  of  pulses  as  he  recognised  that  O'Hagan  was 
free.  Well,  it  was  useless  searching  London.  He  must 
get  back  at  once.  The  charge  would  not  be  made.  It  was 
obvious  that  Sharum  had  decided,  in  spite  of  his  tone, 
to  reinstate  O'Hagan.  He  saw,  too,  that  had  he  listened  to 
Lucy's  prayer  and  acted  at  once  all  this  latter  torment 
might  have  been  spared  her.  He  stood  frowning  over  this, 
lost,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  a  rather  full  life,  in 
thought ;  noting  the  result  of  his  lapse — that  was  it — 
the  result  of  his  lapse  on  this  girl  he  loved. 

The  inspector's  voice  broke  in  here.  He  said,  referring 
to  the  charge  and  its  sudden  withdrawal — "  Rather  a 
boggle,  sir,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Yes,  by  Jove  !  " 

"  A  sort  of  thing  that  often  happens,  though.  Parties 
don't  seem  to  think  just  how  dangerous  it  is  to  lock  a  man 
up — until  he's  locked  up." 

"  Then  they  funk  it,  eh  ?  " 

The  inspector  drew  a  shuttering  hand  down  a  solemn 
face.  He  did  not  speak.  There  was  no  necessity  after 
that  blear  look. 

"  Well,"  said  Peter  Witterspoon,  "  I'm  sorry  to  have 
bothered  you.  I'll  get  away.  .  .  .  Night." 

He  retraced  his  steps,  came  to  the  car,  and  climbed  to 
his  place  at  the  driving  wheel.  Mentally,  as  he  passed  a 
coin  to  the  constable,  he  thought  he  was  lucky  in  being 
spared  to-night  the  eyes  of  his  chauffeur.  Again  he  turned 
to  the  East  End. 

Love  drove  him  thither  ;  passion  ;  desire,  if  you  will — 
but  subordinated  both  of  them  now  by  the  knowledge  of 
Lucy's  trouble.  He  could  not  efface  the  picture  she 
had  made.  He  could  not  push  away  the  thought  that 
he,  equally  with  Sharum,  had  been  the  prime  cause  of  her 
heartbreak.  He  could  not  blot  out  her  cry  for  her  hus- 
band, although  here  cynicism  moved  with  facts  he  could 


TIDE-TIME  315 

not  explain.  He  did  not  seek  to  explain  them.  He  was 
obsessed  by  a  dream.  Nevertheless,  for  all  time  that 
memory  would  be  with  him — he  swore  it — making  him 
as  butter  before  fire,  making  him  feel  small,  mean,  a 
pimp-like  personage  who  has  come  very  near  to  crime. 

For  all  time  ? 

Peter  Witterspoon,  even  as  the  phrase  fell,  recognised 
the  flair  of  Lucy's  presence ;  the  subtle  and  mastering 
force  which  drew  him  to  her  side.  And  yet,  he  had  no 
illusions  as  to  Lucy's  attitude.  She  loved  her  husband. 
She  would  go  to  her  death  for  him  ;  even  as  at  that 
moment  Witterspoon  was  prepared  to  face  the  end  for  her. 

But  there  comes  a  to-morrow  ! 

Peter  Witterspoon  recognised  it  and  pushed  it  from  him. 
He  lived  in  to-day. 

All  down  that  clanging  thoroughfare,  which  is  East 
London's  main  artery,  he  saw  Lucy  kneeling  beside  the 
cot,  alone.  The  picture  troubled  him.  Tears  welled  in 
his  eyes  as  though  he,  too,  were  a  woman  wrestling  with 
a  sorrow  heavy  beyond  words. 

A  man  this  who  could  buy  women  as  he  had  bought 
ships.  True — but  the  dandy  financier  had  made  no 
attempt  to  buy.  On  one  he  had  set  his  heart — one 
married,  as  luck  would  have  it,  to  a  fool  who  scarcely 
seemed  to  value  her.  Else  how  explain  his  absence  at 
this  juncture  ? 

With  a  clang  of  brakes  Peter  Witterspoon  came  round 
into  Bearsted  Road  and  drew  up  before  the  house. 

A  house  this,  occupied  as  far  as  two  rooms  were  con- 
cerned by  one  known  as  a  Bottle-filler — a  man  near  the 
edge  of  things,  on  the  Black  List,  and  an  hour  or  so  ago  in 
the  cells  for  assault,  both  "  premeditated  and  brutal  " 
in  its  ferocity.  Occupied,  too,  by  those  who  wept,  who 
battled  with  Azrael,  striving  to  thrust  him  off,  and  who 
were  baffled  and  made  weary  by  the  warring  legions 
which  accompanied  him. 

A  house  of  dismal  externals  and  insanitary.  On  either 
side  of  it  and  facing  it,  similar  houses,  standing  cheek  by 
jowl  with  a  street  whence  filth  and  noise  were  flung  to 
oscillate  between  straight  frontages  of  stucco.  Filth  in 
the  form  of  dust,  noise  as  of  a  shipyard  lay  upon  the  people 
who  lived  in  that  street.  At  one  corner  of  it  stood  a  gin 
palace ;  within  a  short  distance  several  beer-houses — 


816  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

places  where  a  man  at  odds  with  life  may  sit  and  brood, 
drink  and  sleep  until  he  is  sober,  howl  and  arraign  the 
Force  which  has  beaten  him.  And  near  at  hand,  upstairs 
in  a  poor  back  room  at  Number  45,  lay  Baba,  quiet  as  the 
specialist  who  lately  had  stood  over  him  could  have 
desired. 

"  No  chance  at  all,"  came  authoritatively  from  the  man 
of  science  who  had  motored  down  at  the  earnest  entreaty 
of  his  friend  Witterspoon.  "  Too  late  even  to  say  whether 
a  chance  existed  earlier.  One  cannot  dogmatise  in  a 
case  of  this  kind.  There  were  complications,  of  course ; 
but  physically  the  boy  was  sterling  good  stuff  .  .  . 
unused  to  the  conditions  he  was  called  to  face.  Down 
here" — he  waved  a  hand  which  women  said  was  his  chief 
charm — "of  course,  these  small  troubles  are  endemic. 
This  is  a  matter  somebody  should  ventilate  when  there  is 
time.  Ah,  yes  !  Just  so — when  there  is  time." 

He  went  away.  Other  matters  pressed.  The  world 
throbbed  on  its  journey  through  space,  its  gear  jarring. 

Lucy  was  on  her  knees  beside  the  cot  which  was  her 
world,  struggling  with  tears  and  misery  to  discover 
coherence  in  the  plan  the  Potter  had  set  for  her. 

She  reached  out  and  placed  her  hand  on  the  child's. 
She  sought  his  pulse  and  was  frightened  by  the  nutter  she 
perceived.  Surely  he  was  cold,  too  !  He  looked  white 
and  placid  .  .  .  but  time  winged  onward  drawing  ever 
towards  the  dawn. 

In  a  terror  at  her  position  here  without  Den,  Lucy  rose 
from  her  knees  and  hastened  to  the  door.  She  looked 
down  the  stairs  yawning  into  a  dim  chasm  filled  with 
shadows,  and  cried  out — "  Is  there  anyone  there  ?  "  She 
rang  a  bell  and  called  again  to  someone  who  stood  in  the 
vault  looking  up — "  Send  for  the  doctor  !  Has  Mr. 
Witterspoon  returned.  .  .  .  Eliza,  is  that  you  ?  " 

But  the  Marchioness  had  gone  back  to  her  task  in  the 
scullery,  ruled  by  a  mistress  who  feared  infection. 

Lucy  crept  back  to  her  room  more  scared  than  before. 

She  came  to  the  bed  and  took  Baba  in  her  arms,  wrap- 
ping him  close  in  the  blankets  among  which  he  had  lain. 
She  sat  upon  the  bed  hugging  her  boy,  singing  to  him,  her 
heart  breaking. 

He  lay  quite  still.  Flaxen  hair  damp,  a  little  flush 
tinging  the  cheek  upon  which  he  had  rested,  his  breathing 
difficult,  his  eyes  closed. 


TIDE-TIME  317 

"  Oh  !  my  Baba  .  .  .  my  beautiful,  Mamie's  own 
..."  that  was  the  song  she  sang,  the  cry  of  her  heart,  as 
she  swayed,  hugging  him.  "  Oh  !  my  boy  ...  my  boy, 
stay  with  me  ...  don't  go  ...  stay  with  Daddy  and 
Mamie  who  want  you.  .  .  ." 

She  sang  a  snatch  of  his  song,  her  heart  thumping  as 
she  watched.  She  sang  it  swaying  him  to  and  fro— 

"  Over  the  ditch 
Slip,  little  witch, 
Off  to  rest  and  Dreamland, 
Carrying  dear  Teddy, 
Yellow-brown  Teddy, 
To  laugh  with  you  in  Cloudland." 

And  he  stirred  in  her  arms,  a  smile  on  his  lips.  The 
warmth  she  brought  with  her  touch  perhaps  halted  him 
as  he  moved  towards  the  dawn  ;  perhaps  God  in  giving 
him  his  marching  orders  bade  him  smile  on  the  mother 
who  had  given  him  life.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  said 
huskily,  very  slowly — "  Mamie  sing  Oh  Babee." 

And  again  he  lay  still. 

Sing  ?  Who  of  us  who  are  young  and  filled  with  life 
could  sing  with  death  in  our  arms  ?  Lucy  obeyed.  She 
obeyed  because  she  was  his  mother.  But  she  could  not 
sing  the  song  he  loved.  Her  song  became  a  dirge,  a 
dream — wrapped  most  beautifully  with  her  voice  in 
thought ;  a  vision  perhaps — waking  and  inspired. 

"  God  calls  you,  darling.  Oh  !  He  takes  you  from 
me  .  .  .  because  I  love  you.  By  love  I  won  you,  Baba 
angel.  .  .  .  Bone  of  my  bone  .  .  .  flesh  of  my  flesh 
.  .  .  life  of  my  life  .  .  .  and  you  are  mine.  But  the 
great  God  calls  you.  Back  to  God,  oh  Baba  !  Back  to 
the  All  Father  who  sent  you.  .  .  .  To  the  Tender,  the 
Kind,  the  Omniscient  who  has  planned  and  woven  our 
lives  so  that  we  touch  and  pass  on — touch  and  fade 
away.  .  .  . 

"  Death,  little  witch,  is  nothing  to  the  Good.  It  is 
not  harsh.  Must  we  not  all  die  once  ?  It  is  not  very 
difficult  when  the  time  comes.  We  are  more  tired  than 
we  supposed.  ...  It  does  not  hurt  as  we  thought  it 
might.  .  .  .  Those  who  are  left  it  hurts  more  than  it 
will  hurt  Baba.  .  .  . 

"  Life  hurts,  oh  darling — laws  hurt.  .  .  .  Life  is  made 
hard  by  laws  which  sting  as  death  never  stings.  .  .  . 
Life  grinds  us  small — death  gives  us  life. 


318  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Out  of  the  dark  we  came  .  .  ,  back  to  the  dark  we 
go,  my  soul.  .  .  .  Mamie  follows.  .  .  .  Daddy  follows 
...  up  to  cloudland  ;  up  and  up  to  cloudland.  .  .  ." 

A  sense  as  of  an  immense  weight  came  upon  Lucy's 
arms.  She  looked  up.  The  gas  blared.  She  became 
dizzily  aware  that  she  was  no  longer  where  for  a  space  she 
had  winged.  Somewhere  near  a  clanging  noise  drew  past 
shaking  the  house,  shaking  the  bed  on  which  she  sat. 

She  leaned  over,  searching  the  child's  face,  touching 
his  cheek  with  her  lips.  Already  it  was  grey.  Already 
becoming  cold. 

Tide-time  on  the  great  river  which  brought  them  to 
London  ;  tide-time  for  a  singularly  beautiful  child. 

Lucy  bowed  over  his  still  form  acknowledging  that  she 
was  alone. 

Again  Peter  Witterspoon  climbed  to  the  room  which 
held  the  woman  he  thought  he  loved, 

Except  for  a  candle  which  stood  on  the  dressing-table 
no  light  remained.  Dusk  reigned  here  as  in  the  street. 

Lucy  kneeled  once  more  beside  the  bed,  her  vigil  still 
unchecked.  A  small  gleam  thrown  back  by  the  looking- 
glass  outlined  her  head  and  shoulders,  her  outstretched 
arms.  She  seemed  to  reach  towards  the  boy,  perhaps  to 
touch  him.  It  was  as  though  she  prayed  for  him.  But 
no  sound  fell  which  could  hide  her  sobbing  breath. 

Peter  Witterspoon  crept  in  as  one  who  has  no  right  to 
intrude,  but  is  compelled  by  anxiety  for  the  mourner. 
He  desired  to  satisfy  himself  that  she  needed  no  assistance. 
He  bent  over  her  and  heard  her  calling,  in  a  voice  cloaked 
and  tremulous,  for  Den,  for  her  husband  who  had  left 
her  on  some  incomprehensible  errand  just  when  she  most 
required  his  care.  He  saw  that  she  was  alone. 

He  dragged  back  with  the  attitude  of  a  thief.  It  was 
sacrilege  to  hear  that  prayer,  tragic  to  remember  the 
methodic  hounding  with  which  he  had  pursued  her, 
refusing  to  heed  her  despair. 

To  hear  her  laugh,  to  see  the  play  of  light  on  her  hair, 
to  catch  the  swift  talk  in  which  she  revelled  had  been  his 
pleasure.  He  had  played  with  her  life,  as  she  reminded 
him,  and  now  death  had  come.  For  his  own  pleasure, 
knowing  she  was  clean  and  beautiful,  he  had  paltered 
with  a  situation  which  gradually  had  grown  out  of  hand 


TIDE-TIME  319 

and  now  bid  fair  to  maim  him.  He  knew  her  prayer  had 
been  for  his  help,  and  not  for  his  love  ;  he  knew  she 
begged  for  justice,  not  for  his  purse.  Had  she  not 
returned  the  money  he  sent  her  ?  And  he  had  pandered, 
frolicked,  struggled  to  set  himself  in  the  place  of  the 
husband  she  loved. 

Standing  in  the  adjoining  room,  waiting  now  for  the 
return  of  O'Hagan,  knowing  that  before  very  long  he 
must  come,  Witterspoon  stayed  to  pay,  as  we  all  must 
who  have  played  badly  the  cards  which  were  dealt  to  us. 

The  drone  of  voices  speaking  in  the  passage  caused 
Lucy  to  lift  her  head  and  listen.  It  sounded  like  a 
menace.  She  rose  from  her  knees,  weak  from  that  long 
vigil,  and  saw  Peter  Witterspoon  still  waiting  at  the  door. 
She  moved  towards  him  instantly,  her  eyes  flashing  hope. 

"  You  have  come  back  !  Did  you  see  him  .  .  .  have 
you  found  him  ?  "  she  cried  out. 

He  came  near  holding  out  his  arms. 

"  He  will  be  here  presently — I  was  unable  to  find 
where  he  had  gone.  Let  me  help  you.  ..." 

She  stood  searching  his  face,  repeating — "  Where  he 
had  gone  ?  " 

"Yes.    You  see " 

Lucy  met  the  halting  sentence  quivering. 

"  You  are  making  it  worse.  Tell  me  the  truth  .  .  . 
what  has  happened  ?  Has  he  gone  away  ?  He  would 
not  stay  away  unless  he  is  dead."  Her  voice  fell  to  a 
whisper.  "  Is  he  dead  too  ...  is  he  ?  Quick,  I  must 
know."  She  came  very  close,  trembling,  watching  him. 
"  Oh  God  !  I  am  mad  ...  I  am  mad  to  think  of  such 
things — but ' ' 

Peter  Witterspoon  caught  her  as  she  swayed  and  carried 
her  to  the  chair  still  standing  beside  the  bed.  "  No," 
he  said,  "  no.  He  is  well."  Then  answering  her  question 
in  the  tones  of  one  brought  to  bay,  he  added— 

"  Captain  O'Hagan  went  up  to  see  Sharum.  There  was 
some  trouble  in  the  office — they  wanted  to  prevent  him 
going  in,  I  understand,  and  there  was  a  scuffle  ...  he 
intended  to  thrash  Sharum  ...  he  was  not  hurt.  .  .  ." 

Lucy  stirred  under  his  touch.  Her  breath  came  uneasily 
as  she  leaned  against  his  arm.  Her  eyes  took  a  new  light. 

"  I  was  not  there,"  he  resumed  quietly,  "  or  I  could 
explain  it  better.  After  it  was  over  Captain  O'Hagan  was 
taken  away  by  the  police."  He  paused  over  this,  watchful 


320  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

of  its  effect ;  but  she  signed  him  to  continue,  her  lips 
drawn  as  though  she  too  were  repeating  "  thrash — 
thrash,"  over  and  over  again.  "  I  saw  Sharum  and  we 
came  to  an  arrangement.  Sharum  was  not  aware  of  the 
difficulties  you  have  undergone,  and  I  am  afraid  I  scarcely 
realised  them  either."  He  put  it  so,  nursing  his  oppor- 
tunism. "  Sharum  is  very  soriy  for  what  has  occurred, 
and  he  has  promised  me  to  offer  your  husband  the 
command  of  one  of  his  vessels  at  once.  .  .  ." 
Lucy  stood  erect  in  an  instant. 

"  Now  ?  How  kind  of  him  !  "  she  mocked,  her  voice 
low.  "  Generous  !  The  sort  of  action  I  should  have  ex- 
pected of  him  .  .  .  the  action  of  a  thief  suddenly  alive 
to  his  peril !  Do  you  imagine  we  will  accept  his  offer  in 
exchange  for  silence — and  Baba  ...  do  you  ...  do 
you  ?  "  she  threw  back  at  him,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her 
eyes  passionate.  "  He  has  killed  Baba  .  .  .  killed  him — 
and  he  offers  Captain  O'Hagan  the  command  of  one  of  his 
ships  in  exchange.  An  old  one,  probably.  One  that  will 
carry  him  to  the  bottom  .  .  .  do  you  understand  .  .  .?" 
He  stood  expecting  a  blow,  but  none  fell,  only  the  biting 
and  true  analysis  of  fact. 

"  If  I  were  in  my  husband's  shoes,"  she  said  in  tense 
accents  over  the  child's  quiet  bed,  "  I  would  take  a  whip 
to  Sharum  and  flog  him,  then  when  he  was  fit  for  no  more 
flogging  I  would  shoot  him ;  shoot  him,  you  understand, 
and  go  down  on  my  knees  to  thank  God  for  having  allowed 
me  to  punish  him.  ...  I  would  ...  oh !  I  would 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  obtain  vengeance  ...  I  would 
bring  every  secret  knowledge  I  had  of  the  man  and  his 
ways  to  aid  me.  .  .  ." 

"  Mrs.  O'Hagan  !  "  Witterspoon  moved  to  restrain  her, 
but  she  sprang  from  his  hand,  pushing  him  off. 

"  Don't  touch  me  !     Let  me  think  !     Let  me  think,  or 
I  shall  scream.     I  tell  you  it  is  necessary  to  punish.  .  .  ." 
Footsteps  sounded  in  the  passage  ;   the  street  door  was 
closed,  and  instantly  she  regained  control. 

"  It  is  Den  !  "  she  whispered,  her  face  alight.  "  It  is 
my  husband."  She  moved  to  meet  him,  calling  his  name. 
"  Den  !  Den  !  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  ...  I  have 

been " 

He  mounted  the  stairs  at  a  run.  It  seemed  that  in  his 
haste  he  had  not  heard  Lucy's  cry.  He  came  on  till  he 
stood  within  the  door,  then  paused  frowning,  and  looking 


TIDE-TIME  r>2l 

from  one  to  the  other.  But  in  spite  of  Lucy's  outstretched 
hands  he  did  not  come  near  her. 

Witterspoon  fell  back  as  he  advanced,  oddly  diffident 
now  the  ordeal  was  upon  him. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  I  owe  you  some  kind  of  explana- 
tion  " 

O'Hagan  looked  him  over.  "  You  do,"  he  jerked,  "  but 
not  now.  To-morrow."  Then  pointing  to  the  door — 
"  Outside  at  once,  if  you  please." 

"  But " 

A  look  of  intense  irritation  crossed  O'Hagan's  face.  He 
turned  to  Lucy,  who,  in  mazed  expectancy,  had  drawn 
near  and  now  stood  waiting.  "  Perhaps,"  he  sneered, 
"  you  can  persuade  him  this  is  scarcely  the  place  for  the 
mob." 

With  a  gesture  of  apology,  Witterspoon  obeyed,  and 
O'Hagan  leaned  down  over  the  bed.  He  did  not  speak. 
He  sank  to  his  knees,  his  arms  outstretched  to  shield  the 
child. 


B.F. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DUST  OF  THE  CITIES 

"  DEN  !  " 

Lucy  kneeled  beside  her  husband,  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  He  remained  silent,  bowed  over  the  still  form 
upon  the  bed. 

She  crouched  nearer,  hugging  his  arm,  and  for  a  long 
time  made  no  further  sign. 

Cars  clanged  by  carrying  people  afield  or  to  their  homes  ; 
the  cry  of  horns  booming  on  the  river  announced  that 
already  the  boats  were  slipping  down  with  the  tide  ; 
bound  out,  bound  away  after  miles  of  risky  steaming,  for 
the  Baltic,  for  Holland,  France,  Spain  and  the  Mediter- 
ranean in  search  of  fresh  supplies  for  the  England  we  all 
love — the  England  which  cannot  feed  herself. 

Dust,  noise  and  babble. 

Across  the  way  a  gramophone  droned  a  brassy  version 
of  "  A  Night  in  Eden  "  ;  around  the  corner  an  electric 
blinker  flashed  out  advice  on  the  choice  of  pills — perhaps 
they  were  the  pills  by  which  Peter  Witter  spoon's  father 
grew  rich.  The  crowd  surging  up  and  down  the  pavement, 
singing,  shuffling,  chaffing,  had  never  heard  of  Peter 
Witterspoon  ;  but  pinned  its  faith  on  the  phrase  blinked 
out  at  it  in  red,  white  and  green. 

It  was  after  nine  o'clock,  the  shops  closing,  turning  out 
their  hands  to  take  the  air.  A  constant  buzz  of  voices 
ascended  to  that  still  room  where  Lucy  and  her  husband 
kneeled  beside  the  child.  And  above  the  buzz  came  the 
iterated  and  sharpened  noises,  bells,  whistles,  horns  and 
hooters.  A  pocket  pandemonium  of  nightly  occurrence 
at  the  heart  of  all  great  cities. 

Dust,  noise  and  babble.  Fools  making  love,  women 
seeking  it.  Fools  protesting,  women  believing.  The 
moon  veiled,  lamps  garish,  tram  cars  packed  to  the  straps. 
And  in  the  midst  of  it,  in  a  dim  room,  Lucy  stirring,  tired, 
gripping  Den's  arm. 


DUST  OF  THE   CITIES  323 

"  Dearest  ...  oh  dearest — please  speak  to  me.  I— 
I  can't  bear  more." 

He  rose  as  one  dazed  and  lifted  her.  He  stood  with  his 
arms  round  her  waist,  supporting  her,  looking  down  at 
the  tear-laden  eyes. 

"  You  promised  not  to  see  him  again,"  he  said  in  tones 
she  scarcely  knew.  "  Come  into  the  other  room.  We 
must  talk." 

They  crossed  the  passage,  and  halted  near  the  window 
which  gave  upon  Babel.  Then  again  he  said,  as  she  sat 
hopeless  before  him — "  Why  did  you  let  him  come  in  ?  " 

She  stared  up  puzzled,  questioning  her  comprehension. 
"  You  mean  Peter  Witterspoon  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Oh,  but  Den  !    Den  !    You  don't  mean " 

"  I  mean,"  he  interrupted,  stern  as  she  had  never  seen 
him,  "  that  I  seem  to  be  in  a  fair  way  to  lose  you  as  well  as 
my  ship.  I  am  sorry  to  speak  of  it.  We  must  discuss 
it.  .  .  ." 

"  Discuss  it  ?  My  darling  !  .  .  ."  She  failed  to  articu- 
late, pressed  hands  to  her  forehead,  and  for  a  moment 
closed  her  eyes. 

"  I  put  it  as  gently  as  I  can,  Mem-sahib,"  he  said  huskily. 
"  God  knows  we  have  both  had  enough  without  Peter 
Witterspoon  .  .  .  but  I  can't  leave  it  unexplained.  It  is 
worrying  me.  You  are  all  I  have  left.  Why  did  you  let 
him  come  ?  " 

Light  dawned  in  her  eyes.  The  hot  blood  flowed  again. 
She  looked  up  at  him  without  a  quiver. 

"  He  came  without  invitation,"  she  answered.  "  He 
came  to  tell  me  that  you  were  locked  up  for  thrashing 
Sharum  and  to  see  if  he  could  help  in  your  absence.  I 
was  proud  of  the  reason  which  took  you  away  from  me. 
I  had  gone  out  to  meet  him,  thinking  it  was  you  who  came 
up  the  stairs.  I  knew  nothing.  Baba  was  dying,  Den, 
and  you  were  away."  Her  voice  fell  to  a  whisper.  "  He 
saw  Baba  was  dying  and  got  a  specialist  to  see  him.  He 
tried  to  find  you  and  bring  you  back  to  me.  He  did  every- 
thing for  me.  ...  I  was  alone.  I  wanted  help — what 
could  I  do  ?  " 

O'Hagan  stirred  under  this.  Reproach  appeared, 
wrapped  in  her  words,  in  her  prayer.  He  was  in  no  mood 
for  judgment ;  but  sore  and  bruised  from  the  battle, 
disinclined  to  see  this  aspect  of  the  situation. 

Y  z 


324  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  On  one  thing  I  agree,"  he  said.  "  It  is  obvious  I 
played  the  fool  in  being  away  just  then." 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  cried  out,  refusing  his  challenge.  "  It 
was  fine.  I  loved  you  for  it.  If  you  had  killed  him  I 
should  have  loved  you  still  .  .  .  but,  you  see,  it  left  me 
alone." 

"  It  is  a  pity  I  didn't  thrash  him  six  months  ago,"  he 
said,  with  a  sudden  throw  from  the  rage  which  consumed 
him. 

"  I  agree,"  Lucy  admitted  at  once. 

"If  an  attempt  produces  the  offer  of  a  tramp,"  he 
announced  with  a  sardonic  twist,  "infliction,  no  doubt, 
will  find  me  a  mailship." 

"  Den  !     Oh,  my  darling  !  "   she  pleaded. 

She  knew  that  Peter  Witterspoon  had  compelled  this 
miracle  ;  but  refused  to  comment  on  it.  Some  day  Den 
would  know. 

"  It  is  obvious  the  fellow  is  in  love  with  you,"  he  com- 
plained. "  I  hate  to  speak  of  it — but  there  it  is." 

"  It  takes  two  to  make  love,"  she  sobbed,  and  came 
close,  holding  out  her  arms.  "  Den — you  do  love  me, 
don't  you  ?  You  do — you  do  ?  " 

He  could  not  refuse  her  appeal.  He  sank  into  a  chair 
and  drew  her  near. 

"We  are  miserable,"  he  said,  "heart-broken,  whipped. 
We  scarcely  know  what  we  say.  I  suppose  it  is  all  right 
.  .  .  anyhow,  don't  bother  about  it.  I  shouldn't  have 
spoken  now  if  I  hadn't  been  down,  down,  touching 
bottom  somewhere  and  alone.  .  .  . 

"  That  fellow  has  explanations  to  make.  I  must  see 
him  to-morrow.  Well — I  will  hear  what  he  has  to  say. 
Your  part  in  it  was  involuntary  enough — but  his  is  sheer 
passion.  Think  I  can't  see,  Mem-sahib  ?  Think  I  can't 
recognise  characteristics  which  belong  to  my  sex  ?  You 
can't  see  these  things.  I  shouldn't  care  to  think  you 
could.  .  .  ." 

"  Don't — don't !  "  she  pleaded,  her  face  hidden. 

"  Never  mind  !  Forget  it  ...  leave  it  to  me,"  he 
said.  He  drew  her  into  his  arms  and  sat  holding  her 
close,  swaying  her  as  a  few  hours  ago  she  had  swayed 
Baba. 

"  We  will  smooth  this  out,"  he  protested.  "  If  you 
want  to  cling  to  a  man  who  can't  offer  you  a  stiver — a  poor 
devil  at  the  end  of  his  tether,  mind — good  ;  we  will  pull 


DUST  OF   THE   CITIES  325 

things  out  of  the  ruck.  But  if  you  want  Peter  Wittcr- 
spoon,  say  so,  for  God's  sake,  and  I  will  get  out  of  your 
way.  ..." 

She  checked  him  with  a  word  and  a  tightening  of  her 
hold. 

"  Love  ?  "  he  whispered,  answering  her,  straining  her 
to  him.  "  Of  course  I  love  you.  If  I  didn't  love  do  you 
think  it  would  matter  to  me  where  you  went  or  who  you 
talked  to  ?  But  I  didn't  marry  you  to  drag  you  down 
...  to  show  you  hell.  I  married  you  to  make  you 
happy.  I — I  thought  I  could  do  it.  I  thought  I  could 
win  out  when  I  was  hit  ...  but  there  is  no  winning  out 
for  a  man  on  the  Black  List.  Nothing,  as  God  stands  over 
us,  but  the  end  which  will  come  when — 

"  There  is  love,"  she  whispered  to  halt  him,  her  lips 
against  his  cheek. 

'  You  can't  live  on  love,  oh  dearest." 
'  It  can  make  you  try  to  live." 
'  It  can  make  you  recognise  the  futility  of  living." 
'  I  have  nothing  else  to  offer,  oh  my  darling." 
'  Baba's    gone,"    he    whispered,    his    lips    over   hers. 
"  What  are  we  to  do  ?  " 

'  Fight  on,  darling.     Fight  to  the  end.  .  .  ." 
'  Another  six  months  of  this  and  where  will  you  be  ?  " 
'  Here — at  your  side,  my  husband.     Always — for  ever, 
as  we  have  promised." 

The  cars  hummed  by  laden  and  grinding  on  their 
wheels.  From  over  the  way  came  the  drone  of  a  gramo- 
phone wailing  of  imperfections  which  were  apparent. 
O'Hagan  lifted  slightly  and  said — 
"  I  have  been  thinking  this  out,  Mem-sahib.  It  is 
impossible  to  avoid  it.  I  have  failed.  The  house  will 
have  to  be  sold  down  there  at  Riverton.  It  may  produce 
fifty  pounds  over  and  above  the  debts  which  must  be 
paid.  I  have  failed  all  round  and  I  am  prepared  to  get 
out  of  it,  and  leave  you  with  what  is  left  of  the  wreck. 
You  could  manage  to  drag  along  on  seventy-five  pounds  a 
year,  but  two  of  us  can't.  .  .  .  No — listen.  I  am  not 
mad.  I  have  been  thinking,  that  is  all.  .  .  . 

"  But  for  you  and  the  dear  kiddie  I  should  have  thrown 
it  up  and  gone  out  of  the  country  long  ago.  I  am  strong 
and  have  two  arms.  I  should  have  got  in  somewhere— 
but  I  can't  drag  you  about  where  I  would  have  to  go. 
It  wouldn't  be  fair  if  you  were  willing.  Money  is  getting 


826  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

spun  again,  oh  dearest,  and  there  are  these  bills,  taxes, 
rates,  all  accumulating,  waiting  to  swallow  what  is  left. 
We  can't  face  it,  and  now  Baba's  gone  I  haven't  the 
heart  to  try  .  .  .  that's  the  honest  truth,  Mem-sahib. 

"  Look  ...  I  will  go  alone  ...  or  if  you  won't  stay 
we  will  go  together.  It  isn't  worth  fighting  about. 
Come  !  Aren't  you  tired  of  it  all  ?  I  am.  We  will  end 
it  if  you  say  the  word."  He  spoke  in  hot  wrath,  compelling 
her  silence.  "  Go  away  together  .  .  .  join  the  kiddie.  .  .  . 
Come,"  he  urged,  his  voice  raised.  "  You  aren't  afraid, 
Loo  .  .  .  you  aren't  afraid.  No  !  Nor  am  I.  Look  ! 
It  will  take  two  seconds  ...  we  have  nothing  to  live  for 
but  ourselves  .  .  .  nothing,  as  God  made  us,  and  up  there 
we  should  see  him  again — see  him.  .  .  .  Come  !  " 

He  stopped  breathless  and  fumbling  in  his  pocket. 
Lucy  took  his  meaning  and  clung  to  him  sobbing,  her 
arms  twined  about  him,  holding  him,  taking  the  kisses 
he  showered  on  brow  and  lips. 

"  No — no — no  !  "  she  panted,  terror  in  her  voice. 
"  Wait— Den,  wait.  I  can't  think." 

"  Afraid  ?  " 

His  hands  came  back  to  hold  her,  his  face  fell  to  its  old 
position  upon  her  arm. 

"  No — no  !  "   again  violently  she  refused  this. 

He  paused  wondering — "  Then  what  ?  "   he  asked. 

"  Don't  you  see — can't  you  see  ?  Den,  we  couldn't 
be  together,"  her  voice,  vehement  a  moment  since,  fell 
here  to  a  whisper.  "  We  couldn't  .  .  .  God  would  have 
Baba,"  she  explained. 

Again  her  face  rested  on  his  shoulder  and  her  arms 
encircled  his  neck.  She  moaned  as  with  pain. 

He  leaned  forward  as  before,  sunk  in  thought. 

The  drone  of  the  streets  met  his  ears,  the  yell  of  a  siren, 
the  clang  of  cars. 

Dust,  noise  and  babble. 

The  quarters  chimed  high  in  the  belfry  of  St.  Mathias, 
but  the  world  accustomed  to  clamour  passed  unheeding 
on  its  way. 


Again  they  were  in  the  back  room  with  the  child. 
Lucy's  hand  found  a  way  to  reach  Den's  brow.     He 
gave  himself  willingly  to  her  power. 


DUST  OF  THE   CITIES  327 

He  grew  calmer  under  her  touch.  Peace  came  to  take 
the  place  of  storm.  He  saw  where  he  stood,  how  impos- 
sible it  is  to  evade,  traverse  or  push  aside  destiny.  He 
recognised  the  plan  the  Potter  had  drawn  for  him.  He 
saw  it  as  a  strange  design,  something  he  had  never  seen. 
It  came  to  him  through  Lucy's  brain,  transmuted  by  her 
faith,  trust,  love.  It  came  to  cover  the  gashes  and  raw 
misery  of  his  wounds.  He  saw  with  a  new  insight, 
faintly  at  first,  but  growing  in  power  until  at  length  hope 
dawned.  Hope  where  there  had  been  rage  and  despair. 
Hope  in  place  of  a  torture  seeking  escape.  Hope  1 

Only  God  who  is  our  Father  knows  the  barrenness  of 
life  from  which  hope  has  been  driven. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    SAILING   OF    GRISELDA 

WHEN  a  man  is  beaten  and  sore  he  takes  no  heed  of  the 
ointment  used.  Enough  that  it  is  said  to  be  a  cure  ;  that 
it  will  heal  his  wounds  and  set  him  on  his  feet.  It  may  not 
be  the  very  best  ointment  for  his  case  ;  but  it  is  the  only 
kind  proffered,  and  he  is  too  weak  to  make  much  stir. 

The  ointment  in  this  instance  was  the  Griselda  S.S.,  a 
boat  timed  to  sail  for  New  York  on  the  thirty-first  day  of 
August — four  days  from  the  date  of  Baba's  return  to 
Riverton. 

In  spite  of  their  impoverished  condition,  without 
heartbreaking  appeals  to  philanthropists  or  advertise- 
ments in  the  Times,  these  two  idealists  refused  to  consider 
leaving  him  in  the  cemetery  which  stood  near  at  hand.  It 
was  one  of  the  places  he  had  declined  to  love — "  Not  oh 
darden,  Mamie,"  was  too  fresh  in  their  memories.  It 
was  one  of  the  places  which  had  helped  to  make  him  tired. 
It  had  stood  threateningly  over  them  all  during  the  period 
of  their  greatest  difficulty.  Therefore  the  additional 
fees  were  paid,  O'Hagan  and  Lucy  went  down  to  the  old 
home,  put  dear  Baba  away,  and  sat  heartbroken  for  the 
rest  of  the  day  by  his  side. 

They  were  not  morbid,  nor  sentimental,  nor  any  of  the 
fine-strung  adjectives  destructive  of  feeling ;  but  young 
and  torn  by  the  blows  of  a  whip  which  fell  with  equal  force 
on  both.  Often  they  were  like  children  in  their  simplicity 
— soft,  gentle,  loving.  They  appeared  to  have  less  know- 
ledge of  the  head  than  of  the  heart.  As  on  the  sands  below 
Suez,  facing  the  emerald  reefs  which  lie  on  the  hither  side 
of  Zafarana  ;  so  here  amidst  the  sterile  fastness  of  the 
desert  we  call  East  London. 

If  that  be  an  indictment  it  must  stand  over  them. 
Nothing  else  did.  Even  Peter  Witterspoon  and  his  atten- 
tions had  been  pushed  away,  buried.  O'Hagan  had  no 
need  to  see  him.  He  refused  to  reopen  the  subject  after 
that  night  of  vigil  with  the  child  between  them.  Mrs. 


THE   SAILING  OF  GRISELDA  329 

Portland  Lodge,  who  came  to  watch  from  behind  bushes, 
and  to  weep  in  sympathy,  gave  it  as  her  opinion  they  were 
the  two  calmest  souls  in  the  Riverton  Cemetery  on  that 
day — the  calmest  and  the  gentlest. 

And  the  Griselda  S.S.  was  cramming  herself  full  against 
her  start,  four  days  hence,  for  the  New  World.  No  freak 
voyage  this,  as  in  the  case  of  Jimmy  Barlow ;  but  the 
ordinary  routine  trip  of  a  vessel  dignified  by  the  name  of  a 
liner,  but  of  less  capability  than  many  a  Tramp.  McClure 
jokingly  spoke  of  the  Strathmuir  as  a  Tramp.  Had  she 
been  as  the  Griselda  he  would  have  been  more  chary  of 
the  pleasantry. 

Stephen  Hammond,  still  busy  on  legally  getting  hold  of 
Sharum,  Ltd.,  had  but  one  opinion  on  the  question 
which  O'Hagan  proffered.  He  must  accept.  No  other 
course  could  be  considered  as  on  the  same  plane.  Legal 
processes  in  time,  no  doubt,  would  bring  the  fellow  to 
book; — but  this  he  had  no  hesitation  in  saying  it  was 
the  finest  move  O'Hagan  could  make.  Removal  from  the 
Black  List  would  follow — for  it  was  patent  that  when 
Lloyd's  saw  that  Sharum,  who  had  initiated  the  charges, 
had  reinstated  O'Hagan,  erasure  would  follow.  That 
stood  to  reason. 

True.  In  any  other  phase  of  life  but  that  held  in  fee 
by  the  shipping  interests,  it  would.  But  there  the 
abnormal  is  touched  on  every  hand. 

Sharum  had  done  the  thing  he  was  compelled  by  Peter 
Witterspoon  to  do,  quite  decently,  as  the  phrase  goes. 
He  had  made  the  amende  honorable  in  a  way  which  left 
much  to  the  imagination  if  little  to  be  desired.  He 
explained  that  nothing  had  been  farther  from  his  wishes 
than  any  sort  of  persecution.  Especially  this  was  so, 
seeing  O'Hagan  had  been  so  unfortunate  in  his  investment 
with  the  Sphinx  Company.  And,  with  regard  to  the  money 
sunk  in  that  venture,  he  had  hopes  that  a  considerable 
portion  would  be  recovered  when  an  end  had  been  made 
of  certain  matters  which  still  dragged  in  the  Courts. 

He  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  large  and  well-fed 
organiser  of  a  throng  of  steamships — bottoms,  he  called 
them — which  had  to  be  kept  rolling  ;  one  of  those  persons 
who  stood  with  lifted  digit  to  round  in  recruits  on  what 
he  called  specially  advantageous  terms  ;  one  alike  a  terror 
to  established  firms  as  to  the  men  who  suffered  in  his 
vessels.  But  he  could  be  suave.  At  the  desire  of  Peter 


330  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

Witterspoon,  who  would  "  see  him  right  in  the  question 
of  expense,"  he  could  forget  "  the  little  difficulties  "  which 
have  "  arisen  between  us,"  and  generally  make  himself 
agreeable  to  an  out-at-elbows  skipper  aching  for  a  chance 
to  get  to  sea. 

He  could  get  him,  with  very  little  difficulty,  down  on  the 
ground  floor  as  far  as  salary  is  concerned,  with  "  rises  " 
and  "  bonuses  "  and  "  safe  navigation  "  money  jostling 
each  other  as  inducement.  He  could  order,  without 
turning  a  hair,  his  "  skipper  "  to  accept  gratuities,  but  to 
account  for  them  in  his  returns.  The  skipper  aforesaid 
would  then  be  credited  with  a  sum  equal  to  ten  per  cent. 
on  the  amount,  and  the  managing  owner — Sharum  in 
propria  persona — would  credit  himself  with  the  balance. 

No  wonder  Sharums  flourished  and  Sharum  grew  fat. 
No  wonder  Peter  Witterspoon  was  able  to  rake  in  "  cent. 
per  cent."  as  he  termed  it,  in  his  moments  of  fatuous 
bragging.  Together  these  men  were  at  the  top  of  the 
ladder,  O'Hagan  and  Lucy  at  the  bottom.  It  stood  as  it 
always  must  where  these  conditions  exist.  O'Hagan, 
urged  by  his  friends,  pressed  by  his  enemies,  cajoled  by 
his  employer,  accepted  command  of  the  Griselda,  then 
went  down  to  look  at  her.  He  did  not  like  what  he  saw  ; 
he  liked  still  less  what  the  mate  told  him,  and  he  came  back 
to  Bearsted  Road  to  tell  Lucy  just  what  he  must  tell  her. 

He  struck  the  note  very  soon,  aware  in  his  heart  and  in 
response  to  her  anxious  look  that  it  was  the  only  one  that 
mattered. 

"  I  can't  take  you,  oh  dearest,"  he  whispered,  looking 
into  her  eyes,  the  thought  of  her  loneliness  thrilling  him. 

"  Can't !  "  She  was  in  his  arms,  held  close  to  soften  the 
blow.  "  Oh  1  but  I  couldn't  stay  away.  Where  could  I 
stay?  There  is  nowhere  to  go,  and  now  Baba  is  gone  .  .  ." 

He  captured  her  roving  hands,  holding  them  close. 

"  Sharum  says  the  accommodation  would  scarcely  do," 
he  repeated,  "  and  I  admit  it  is  pretty  bad." 

She  pressed  to  him  in  a  passion  of  disappointment,  fear, 
rebellion.  "  I  don't  mind  what  the  place  is  like,  dearest, 
I  must  be  with  you — with  you." 

He  shook  despondingly  over  this.  "  You  know  my 
wish  ?  "  he  asked  her. 

For  answer  she  nestled  close,  clinging  to  his  strength. 

"  Sharum  says  that  if  this  voyage  is  prosperous  he  will 
give  me  a  better  ship,  and  that  I  shall  be  able  to  take  you. 


THE  SAILING  OF  GRISELDA  831 

I  fancy  he  seems  inclined  to  take  up  the  new  attitude. 
They  all  talk  in  the  same  strain  now.  They  question 
whether  it  is  wise  to  allow  a  skipper  to  take  his  wife 
with  him." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  suggestion  is  that  a  man  pays  more  attention 
to  his  wife  than  to  his  ship." 

"  But  you  will  persuade  him,"  she  pleaded.  "  Tell 
him  it  is  because  of  Baba.  Tell  him  I  can't  lose  you  both 
at  once.  I  can't,  Den.  Tell  him  so." 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can,  you  may  bet,"  he  answered. 
"I  will  see  him — by  the  way,  how  long  would  you 
want  to  get  ready  ?  " 

"  Half  an  hour — I  shall  be  ready,  oh  dearest,"  she 
whispered,  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  as  he  held  her. 
"Try — try!  Let  me  see  him,"  she  begged,  "or  Peter 
Witter  spoon.  He  would  do  it  for  us." 

O'Hagan  flinched  at  the  name,  but  stooped  to  caress 
the  soft,  flushed  face  of  this  girl  he  loved.  "No,  no.  I 
would  rather  do  it  myself,  kiddie.  Let  me  have  my  way. 
It  is  a  man's  work — not  yours." 

"  And  I  shall  be  ready,"  she  proclaimed  in  triumph. 

The  Griselda  was  to  sail  on  Saturday  by  the  early  tide, 
and  in  order  that  the  crew  should  have  some  knowledge 
of  her  and  have  time  to  get  sober,  the  hour  for  joining  was 
appointed  as  "  eight  o'clock  on  Friday  evening." 

O'Hagan  argued  that  a  drunken  man  is  not  of  much 
use  either  at  the  wheel  or  on  the  look-out ;  but  a  crew  is 
not  concerned  with  details.  Broad  facts  are  recognised. 
Early  tide,  eh  ?  Good.  The  men  would  be  there  or 
thereabouts  when  the  ship  reached  Tidal  Basin. 

Men  went  to  sea  drunk  in  the  old  days  often  because 
they  were  drugged  ;  but  to-day  they  come  down  hurdy- 
gurdy,  because  they  have  been  the  victims  of  the  compas- 
sionate farewells  of  many  friends  who  have  gloomily  fore- 
told the  end.  They  have  been  warned  that  Hades  awaits 
them  ;  that  the  Atlantic  will  bleach  their  bones. 

Very  naturally,  therefore,  a  man  who  is  compelled  to 
ship  gets  himself  drunk.  He  has  no  great  love  for  the 
sea ;  still  less  to  get  broken  up  by  it.  If  he  aimed  at 
that  he  might  find  employment,  for  example,  as  a  shunter. 
If  he  desired  to  escape  jail,  it  is  possible  he  might  look 
with  equanimity  on  life  in  a  Tramp  ;  but  the  crew  of  the 


332  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

Griselda  were  not  seeking  to  evade  responsibilities.     They 
were  accepting  them. 

The  mate  and  engineers  being  officers  and  persons  of 
importance  were  already  on  board,  enduring  night  and 
day  work  sans  additional  pay  or  rest.  That  they  accepted 
because  they  must.  But  firemen  and  those  deck  hands 
who  once  were  known  as  sailors  were  under  no  sort  of 
compulsion  in  the  matter.  They  came  down  or  were 
carried  down  in  a  dribbling  procession  of  units,  "  after 
the  pubs  were  closed." 

The  men  were  good  enough ;  but  many  of  them  found 
it  exceedingly  difficult  to  stand  still.  The  knowledge 
that  they  were  shipped  and  must  exist  for  some  months 
in  quarters  called  a  fo'c'sle — a  V-shaped  space  in  the  eyes 
of  the  ship — would  have  been  sufficient  excuse  for  that, 
had  they  seen  it.  But  British  sailors  do  not  choose  their 
ship  after  a  prolonged  examination  of  various  fo'c'sles  ; 
they  ship  when  they  must — which  is  to  say,  when  they 
no  longer  can  finger  a  bawbee,  and  are  in  debt  to  their 
forsaken  boarding-master  into  the  bargain.  Sometimes 
they  are  ignorant  of  the  name  of  the  ship  which  is  to  take 
them  to  sea  ;  do  not  know  in  what  dock  she  lies  or  when 
she  is  to  sail.  They  are  truculently  aware  someone  will 
look  after  these  details  and  dream  of  being  transported  to 
her,  riotous  in  a  taxi.  Once  it  was  de  rigueur  to  take 
"  an  'ansom  an'  a  gell  on  each  knee  "  ;  to-day  it  is  to  "  do 
the  toff  in  a  taxi,  wiv  a  packet  of  cigarettes," 

Only  the  hilarity  remains  unchanged. 

At  nine  o'clock,  then,  O'Hagan  came  alone  to  his  ship. 

There  was  a  suggestion  of  unrest  in  his  attitude.  He 
had  been  unsuccessful  with  Sharum,  who  had  decided 
that  Mrs.  O'Hagan  must  remain  on  shore  this  trip.  It 
cannot  be  said  that  Denis  pressed  for  her  company.  He 
seemed  uncertain,  like  a  man  who  has  propounded  a 
riddle  and  still  seeks  the  answer  ;  like  a  man  who  has 
accepted  an  appointment  and  now  seeks  to  puzzle  out 
what  lies  before  him. 

"  Clear  yourself,  get  out  and  win  a  Star,"  had  been 
Worsdale's  reiterated  advice  ;  and  it  had  made  way  here. 
It  was  the  surest  of  all  possible  modes  of  escape  from  the 
consequences  of  that  Sphinx  disaster  which  still  hampered 
him.  He  must  go — with  Lucy  if  possible  ;  but  if  not, 
then  without  her,  his  two  hands  and  feet  and  brain  to 
help  him.  Only  in  this  way  was  it  possible  to  impress 


THE  SAILING  OF  GRISELDA  333 

the  vast  interests  which  it  seems  were  arrayed  against 

i    •  */  o 

him. 

And  now  Lucy  was  alone  at  Riverton.  Until  mid-day 
on  Friday  she  had  been  on  board  on  every  opportunity, 
helping  with  the  arrangement  of  Den's  room.  With  him 
she  had  looked  into  the  holds,  lazarette  and  store-rooms, 
in  order,  as  she  said,  that  she  might  visualise  more 
completely  his  environment.  She  took  the  decision  that 
she  could  not  accompany  him  more  quietly  than  he 
expected,  but  there  was  heart  break  in  her  voice  when 
she  presently  commented  on  their  splendid  start  from 
Glasgow. 

"  A  year  ago,  oh  dearest  !  A  whole  year,  and  only 
two  of  us  left  to  jobble  in  the  ruts.  Remember  the 
Broomielaw,  and  Inverary — and  that  coat  you  were 
going  to  get  me  ?  " 

"  Remember  !     God  !     Can  I  ever  forget  ?  " 

She  came  close  and,  putting  her  hands  on  his  shoulders, 
said — "  You  didn't  want  to  leave  me  behind,  Den, 
dearest  ?  " 

For  answer  he  found  her  lips. 

"  No  luck,  my  darling.  None,  none,"  he  intoned. 
And  she  kissed  him  with  a  calm  which  steadied  him.  She 
recognised  that  the  answer  he  had  found  was  no  answer. 
She  questioned  in  her  mind  whether  she  desired  one,  seeing 
he  withheld  it.  To  be  near  him  in  the  fight  which  was 
before  him  was  of  much  more  importance. 

And  now  she  had  returned  to  Riverton  and  was  praying 
for  his  safety.  The  dangers  of  his  calling  were  derided  by 
those  who  are  considered  experts.  It  was  said  that  sta- 
tistics proved  the  gradual  decrease  of  accidents  entailing 
loss  of  life.  Insurance  societies  dealt  in  lives  as  readily 
afloat  as  ashore.  Tramps  were  safe,  liners  more  safe, 
palace-hotel-swimming-bath-combinations  unsinkable. 

Yet  Lucy  in  her  ignorance,  petitioned  for  her  husband's 
safety. 

Woman-like. 

A  golden  river  took  the  Grlselda  on  its  bosom  as  she 
crept  past  Gallions  and  stole  amidst  shouting  from  the 
Pier  Head  into  Woolwich  Reach. 

All  hands  were  on  board,  including  two  white-faced  boys 
who  were  there  to  learn  what  is  possible  of  sailor-lore  of  a 
thing  known  to  sailors  as  a  Tramp.  The  masts  were  very 


334  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

little  higher  than  the  funnel,  and  were  stayed  as  no  masts 
were  ever  stayed  in  the  days  of  seamanship.  They  would 
not  have  been  there  but  authority  had  decided  they  were 
necessary  to  carry  the  masthead  lamp  and  to  hold 
derricks  aloft  when  cargo  was  handled.  They  were  of 
steel  with  great  tressels  at  the  top  of  them  ;  and  the  stays 
which  kept  them  aloft  were  of  chain  and  wire.  The  only 
ropes,  qua  ropes,  on  board  were  those  by  which  the  ship's 
boats  were  hoisted ;  and  these  should  have  been  of  steel 
— a  fact  authority  had  not  yet  recognised. 

Treegan,  the  mate,  employed  at  this  moment  doing 
what  the  men  were  incompetent  to  do,  had  no  doubt  in 
his  mind.  He  was  standing  on  the  rail  because  it  had 
been  found  necessary  to  "  flake  the  boats'  falls  "  on  the 
davit  head  to  keep  them  out  of  the  sea  which  presently 
might  be  expected  ;  and  to  the  second  mate  Treegan 
expressed  his  views.  "  Ropes  that  have  been  flaked  are 
full  of  kinks,"  he  said.  "  They  won't  run  through  the 
blocks.  You  won't  get  that  boat  into  the  water  in  less 
than  half  an  hour." 

"  Less  ?  "  young  Evans  questioned,  cock-a-whoop  on 
deck,  "  not  it.  More,  if  I  know  anything  of  the  new 
scale  rope-hauler.  He's  here  to  be  fattened,  not  to  work, 
sir,  if  I  know  anything." 

"That's  so,"  said  the  mate;  "and  you  and  me  are 
here  to  see  that  his  grub  is  cooked  properly  and  that  he 
gets  it  without  lip  from  the  cook  .  .  .  Wish  I'd  never  seen 
the  sea ! " 

"  Wish  I'd  broke  my  neck  before  I  came,"  said  young 
Evans. 

"Wish  you  had,"  returned  his  chief.  "  Keep  the 
turns  out  of  that  fall." 

"  Wish  I  could,"  Evans  protested ;  "  but  it's  steam  laid 
and  wants  all  hands  to  straighten  it  out.  Eyah  !  There 
she  goes !  " 

Treegan  had  nothing  to  say.  The  wind  was  up  from 
the  eastward,  and  the  Griselda  splashed  along  on  the  ebb, 
drawing  down  to  Riverton.  By  the  time  the  two  mates, 
with  the  assistance  of  a  bo'sun  and  apprentices,  had 
"  cleared  the  decks,"  she  was  trailing  her  grey  length  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  old  railway  pier,  where  O'Hagan 
rather  expected  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Lucy's  farewell 
handkerchief. 

He  grew  restless  as  they  came  near  and  failed  to  dis- 


THE  SAILING  OF  GRISELDA  335 

cover  her  signal.  He  searched  with  his  glasses  and  still 
failed.  They  crept  by,  going  "dead  slow,"  because  pre- 
sently they  must  halt  to  change  pilots  ;  but  Lucy  had  not 
arrived  when  at  length  the  pier  was  melting  in  haze. 
O'Hagan  marched  the  bridge,  casting  from  time  to  time 
a  glance  over  the  taffrail,  and  decided  that  if  she  came  now 
they  would  be  so  distant  that  she  would  be  unable  to 
distinguish  one  figure  from  another. 

He  walked  with  a  sense  of  pain — it  seemed  like  deser- 
tion— until  there  came  to  vivify  him  a  recollection  of  the 
hour.  It  was  not  yet  seven  o'clock.  To  reach  the  pier 
in  time  to  wave  her  farewell  Lucy  must  have  left  home 
soon  after  six.  He  thanked  her  for  remaining  in  bed,  and 
smiled  over  the  notion  which  bade  him  expect  her. 

At  ten  o'clock  they  were  passing  the  Nore  and  driving 
into  an  increasing  swell.  The  wind  broke  over  the  ship, 
laden  with  salt,  and  the  tang  of  it  fell  on  faces  long  strange 
to  its  assault.  O'Hagan  squared  his  shoulders  as  he 
marched  up  and  down,  considering  his  chances.  A  lucky 
start  in  the  old  days  meant  a  great  deal  to  the  men 
who  forced  their  way  against  odds  to  which  O'Hagan  was 
a  stranger  ;  yet  luck  is  a  thing  to  be  prized. 

True,  they  were  getting  a  dusting  at  the  moment ; 
but  that  is  the  law.  If  you  do  not  get  it  now  you  will 
presently,  has  become  a  byword  at  sea,  and  because  the 
ship  will  have  burnt  coal  and  be  lighter  presently,  Jack 
prays  for  postponement  of  the  visitation.  They  crept 
even  more  slowly  through  the  sands  which  are  London's 
safeguard  from  assault  by  sea,  and  came  white  and  spout- 
ing brine  to  the  North  Foreland.  A  rising  glass,  rising 
wind  and  sea,  means  fine  weather  in  Channel,  and  when 
you  are  round  the  corner  at  Dover  you  have  earned  the 
conditions  which  follow. 

The  Griselda  splashed  very  busily  at  the  grey-green 
rollers  she  met.  She  moved  in  a  smother  of  spume, 
which  enveloped  her  after  every  dive,  and  made  her  shine. 
She  emerged  spouting  brine,  wet  to  the  funnel  rim  and 
steaming,  against  the  blue  sky.  She  flopped  with  her 
counter  and  banged  with  her  blunt  bow,  and  seemed  to 
revel  in  the  smother  she  produced.  She  was  wet,  and 
she  revelled  in  her  wetness  as  though  in  a  skittish  mood 
an  elephant  had  chosen  to  emulate  the  scaup — and  the 
mosquito  fleet  which  patrols  the  coast  while  England 
sleeps  noted  her  tactics  in  passing. 


336  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

She  came  into  the  Downs  with  wind  and  sea  broad 
abeam,  and  found  a  squadron  lying  behind  the  sands, 
joyous  because  of  their  escape  from  wall-locked  Dover. 
To  add  to  their  comfort,  she  sent  a  bow  wave  to  disturb 
them,  dropped  her  flag  to  the  salute  and  breathed  smoke 
upon  the  brightness.  If  she  had  flopped  among  those 
gleaming  hulls  from  the  clouds,  like  some  new  kind  of 
aerial  monster,  she  could  not  have  produced  more 
annoyance. 

"  That,"  said  the  officer  known  as  C.O.  to  his  second  in 
command,  "  is  one  of  the  things  we  have  to  nurse  in 
war-time.  Ye  gods  !  what  a  cow  !  " 

But  he  acknowledged  the  salute  of  the  cow. 

So  O'Hagan  came  round  the  coast  to  Dover,  halted 
there  to  shake  hands  with  his  pilot,  crept  past  the  break- 
water, his  signals  flying,  and  moved  into  the  purple 
Channel  which  lay  beyond.  Nothing  now  before  the 
Griselda  but  an  every-day  march  from  headland  to  head- 
land, until  Scilly  was  passed  and  the  Atlantic  rolled  its 
sullen  hills  to  test  her  strength.  Matters  these  too  far 
ahead  to  trouble  either  ship  or  crew,  both  now  settling 
into  their  stride  and  alive  to  their  luck.  The  wind  was 
astern,  and  the  old  stager  rolled  before  it,  lolloping  small 
seas  as  she  went.  Her  fires  hummed,  the  smoke  from  her 
lean  funnel  drove  steadily  in  her  path  ;  the  black  squad 
energetically  rattled  shovels  below  and  the  crew  nursed 
sore  heads  on  the  forecastle. 

The  cook  came  out  of  his  galley  and  yawned  brazenly, 
considering  the  magnitude  of  his  task.  In  the  cabin 
aft  a  yawn  fell  too ;  but  no  one  heard  it.  The  pro- 
peller grumbling  beneath  that  cabin  made  no  ado  about 
smothering  it. 

A  thin  scud  had  drawn  over  from  the  east,  and  it  was 
growing  dark  when  O'Hagan  called  the  mate  and  told 
him  to  take  charge.  It  was  dinner  time  in  the  old  service, 
supper  time  in  the  Griselda,  and  the  commander  moved 
down  to  the  saloon.  The  sun  had  set  rather  more  than 
half  an  hour  since,  a  red  ball  of  heat,  which  touched  the 
high  ridge  of  Dungeness  and  made  it  glow.  Now,  how- 
ever, the  light  had  been  made,  peeping  pale  in  the  haze 
which  rimmed  the  western  land  and  sea,  and  O'Hagan 
was  free  for  a  while. 

He  crossed  by  the  plank  bridge  which  would  be  used 
entirely  in  bad  weather  and  entered  his  cabin  from  the 


THE  SAILING  OF  GRISELDA  337 

saloon.  It  stood  on  the  starboard  side.  Opposite  were 
five  berths,  used  sometimes  as  store-rooms,  sometimes  to 
accommodate  passengers.  Abaft  O'Hagan's  sitting-room 
was  a  sleeping  berth,  and  abaft  that  a  bath-room.  These 
rooms  communicated  one  with  the  other  through  doors 
within,  and  either  of  them  could  be  reached  from  the  saloon. 

O'Hagan  took  off  his  cap  and  coat,  plunged  his  face  in 
water  to  get  the  salt  out  of  his  eyes,  as  he  phrased  it,  and 
turned  back  to  the  room  in  which  he  had  disrobed. 

He  crossed  quite  casually  to  take  up  his  coat  and,  as  he 
did  so,  a  note  lying  on  the  crimson  velvet  of  the  settee 
caught  his  eye.  He  stooped  over  it  in  the  dusk,  wriggling 
into  his  coat  as  he  did  so  ;  then  with  a  quick  dash,  caught 
it  up,  switched  on  the  light,  and  tore  the  envelope. 

In  those  few  seconds  of  time  his  eyes  had  expressed 
surprise,  delight,  and  then  puzzle.  "  Lucy  ! "  was  the 
word  framed  rather  than  spoken  on  his  lips  ;  and  in  his 
brain  there  flashed — "  She  has  managed  to  get  in  a  letter 
.  .  .  God  bless  her." 

He  opened  the  note  to  read  and  the  puzzle  increased, 
his  brow  became  knitted ;  there  was  an  indication  of 
annoyance. 

"  Dearest,"  he  read  and  re-read,  "  don't  be  angry 
with  me.  I  simply  couldn't  stay  away,  and  so  I'm 
here — at  least,  I  will  be  if  you  get  this — locked  up  in 
No.  3.  Do  let  me  out  and  don't  be  too  angry.  Knock 
the  C.D.Q.  signal*  and  I  will  open  the  door. 

"  Ever  your  own  WIFIE." 

O'Hagan  mopped  his  forehead.  Suddenly  his  tem- 
perature had  touched  fever  point.  "  On  board  !  "  was 
what  he  said.  "  Ever  your  own  wine  ...  on  board — 
Good  God  !  "  Then  he  raged.  "  How  the  devil  did  she 
get  here  .  .  .  who  helped  her  ?  "  and,  after  some  wasted 
minutes,  he  thought  it  wise  to  pocket  the  letter,  make  no 
clamour,  but  take  steps  to  liberate  her. 

Through  the  open  door  of  his  room  he  made  a  survey 
of  the  saloon.  No.  3  !  It  was  within  twenty  feet— an 
innocent,  unsuspicious  looking  door.  This  was  terrible, 
He  told  himself  in  response  it  was  thrilling,  amazing,  mad, 
wonderful.  He  got  grip  of  himself.  "Lucy  on  board  ! 
Lucy  on  board  !  "  It  seemed  absurd,  yet  "  God  is  God, 

*  Now  replaced  by  S.O.S.,  "  In  distress,  want  assistance." 
B.F.  Z 


338  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

and  we  are  His  children,"  hummed  in  his  brain  as  quit- 
tance. And  outside  there  an  owl-like  steward,  with 
sallow  face  and  glancing  eyes,  hovered,  patting  a  cloth  and 
straightening  knives. 

"  Devil  take  the  man !  "  O'Hagan  mouthed.  "  Why  is 
he  hanging  round  that  door — has  he  heard  anything — 
does  he  suspect  ?  " 

With  the  calm  of  a  great  tension  the  captain  stepped 
into  the  saloon  and  called — "  Steward  1  " 

"  Yes,  sir  !  "  The  man  sprang  to  attention,  expecting 
perhaps  a  blow. 

"Go  on  to  the  bridge  and  ask  the  mate  for — for  my 
binoculars." 
'  Yes,  sir." 

"  They  want  cleaning,"  O'Hagan  embroidered.  "  Bring 
them  to  me  here." 

Again  the  swift  "  Yes,  sir,"  of  all  stewards  who  desire  to 
be  in  the  good  books  of  their  commander.  He  tucked  a 
napkin  under  his  arm,  straightened  his  back,  and  with  a 
lingering  glance  at  the  table  darted  off  on  his  errand.  At 
the  end  of  the  alleyway  which  received  him  was  a  door 
leading  to  the  main  deck ;  halfway  thither  a  short  flight 
of  stairs  mounted  through  an  opening  to  the  smoking- 
room  above. 

The  steward  elected  to  go  by  way  of  the  stairs,  and 
O'Hagan  stood  listening  for  his  footsteps.  Over  the 
saloon  was  a  skylight  through  which  the  man  could  peep 
if  he  wished  to  pry.  To  look  down  at  his  commander  it 
was  only  necessary  to  walk  aft  instead  of  forward. 
O'Hagan  failed  entirely  to  hear  sounds  which  would 
denote  progression  in  either  direction.  He  stood  miser- 
ably cognisant  of  intrigue.  Again  a  cold  sweat  stood 
upon  his  forehead.  He  could  wait  no  longer.  He  must 
be  certain  where  this  man  had  gone. 

Quite  openly  now,  buttoning  his  coat  with  the  air  of 
one  perfectly  and  coldly  calm,  he  walked  down  the  alley- 
way, climbed  the  stairs  and  looked  out.  The  dusk  of  an 
evening  singularly  placid  and  inspiring  met  him — no 
steward  though,  either  forward  or  aft  ...  certainly  not 
aft.  O'Hagan  marched  round  the  skylight  to  prove  it 
and  came  back  to  the  stairs.  He  noticed  that  he  had 
become  quite  breathless  on  that  walk. 

And  now. 

Down  through   the  smoking-room  entrance,  fast  and 


THE  SAILING  OF  GRISELDA  339 

quite  on  his  mettle,  his  heart  giving  metronomic  accent  to 
his  breath  till  he  reached  the  door  of  No.  3,  when  it  seemed 
to  stand  still.  He  drummed  out  his  signal  in  a  fashion 
that  no  operator  could  decipher,  knuckles  on  door. 

He  listened,  his  ear  near  the  jointure  between  panel 
and  panel,  and  heard  a  sound. 

Again  he  gave  with  staccato  touch  the  signal  which 
brings  people  to  attention  at  sea. 

And  there  came  an  answer,  the  key  turned,  and  Lucy 
stood  pale  and  blinking  at  the  light  before  him.  He 
scarcely  knew  her.  It  was  all  so  impossible — then  her 
whisper  reached  him — 

"  I  had  to  come,  oh  dearest.  I  had  to  come  .  .  .  you 
aren't  angry  ?  " 

"  Angry  !  " 

She  was  in  his  arms,  and  the  door  slammed  upon  them 
by  the  rolling  movements  of  their  ship.  He  searched  her 
in  the  dusk,  his  hands  finding  strange  contours.  Then  in 
a  great  turmoil  he  said — 

"  Oh,  but  .  .  .  Good  Lord !  you  are  dressed  like  a  man." 

"  Had  to,  Den.  Couldn't  risk  petties  here.  Kiss 
me — -say  you  are  glad." 

" Come  into  my  room,"  he  answered ;  "I  managed  to 
clear  the  coast  somehow.  Come  now — quickly." 

He  opened  the  door  and  peered  out.  The  silence  of  a 
saloon  in  a  ship  where  passengers  neither  fuss  nor  grumble 
met  him  ;  the  swinging  tray  swinging ;  the  barometer 
swaying ;  the  compass  set  beneath  the  dome  of  the  sky- 
light swaying.  A  placid  night  in  Channel  the  motive 
power.  Nothing  else  under  the  stars. 

O'Hagan  closed  the  door,  locked  it  and  pocketed  the 
key. 

"  Now,"  he  whispered,  and  they  crossed  together  to 
the  captain's  quarters. 

He  closed  the  door.  He  took  Lucy  by  the  waist  which 
was  not  hers  and  drew  her  into  his  sitting-room.  The 
outside  door  he  locked,  still  holding  her.  The  door  of  the 
bath-room  which  opened  into  the  saloon  he  locked  also. 
The  keys  he  put  in  a  drawer.  His  arm  never  left  her. 
With  hers  she  clung  to  him  as  she  could. 

He  crossed  to  the  settee  and  sat  down  holding  her  back 
to  search  her  disguise. 

"  You  make  a  rather  decent  boy,"  he  smiled  up  at  her, 
"  but  what  have  you  done  with  your  hair  ?  " 

Z  8 


340  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Tucked  it  up,  oh  dearest.  It  is  under  my  cap  and 
muffler." 

"  I'm  glad  you  haven't  cut  it  off,"  he  commented. 

"  Are  you  glad  I  am  here  ?  "  she  pleaded. 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do  ?  "  he  questioned,  lifting 
his  lips  from  hers,  "  now  that  you  are  here  ?  " 

Her  arms  were  round  his  neck,  she  drew  his  down  and 
kissed  him. 

"  Live,"  she  whispered. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A   THIN   SHEET   OF    STEEL 

IT  became  necessary  to  invent  some  sort  of  explanation 
of  Lucy's  presence.  The  mate  was  rather  a  stickler ;  he 
might,  too,  recollect  having  seen  the  captain's  wife  on 
board — they  must  guard  against  that.  The  alternative  to 
simple  openness,  of  course,  was  concealment,  an  unthink- 
able and  stupid  plan  only  mentioned  to  be  dismissed  by 
O'Hagan.  Concealment  meant  no  fresh  air,  no  sea 
breezes  for  Lucy ;  but  the  stuffy  atmosphere  of  a  cabin 
or  store-room  eternally  guarded,  locked  up  and  watched 
by  the  captain.  Again,  unthinkable. 

Lucy  preferred  an  open  bid  for  companionship.  Den, 
marching  the  floor,  alternately  noting  the  door  and  his 
wife,  listened  and  said  little. 

"  Let  me  be  a  friend  of  yours,  my  husband — sent  down 
by  my  doctor,  you  know  ...  at  the  last  minute  of 
course  .  .  .  and — oh,  no  time  to  pay  for  a  berth  or  any- 
thing. Say  I  am  mentally  afflicted  and  you  found  me 
in  your  room,  that  you  used  to  know  me,  and  that  I  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  running  away  from  home  and  getting 
into  trouble  generally.  Say  that  I  am  going  the  round 
voyage,  Den,  anyhow.  That  in  all  probability  I  shall 
vanish  in  New  York,  but  that  I  shall  come  back  with  you 
and  pay  up  like  a  man.  .  .  . 

"  Tell  them  I'm  a  fool,  oh  dearest,  a  scamp,  a  lunatic 
.  .  .  but  don't  put  me  ashore  or  on  any  other  ship, 
because  if  you  did  I  should  jump  overboard  and  swim 
after  you,  get  hold  of  a  rope  and  tow  behind  you  .  .  . 
because,  oh,  I  am  tired,  dear  dearest,  lonely  without— 
without  my  Baba,  and  can't  stay  where  .  .  .  where  Peter 
Witterspoon  can  fuss  and  .  .  .  and  ..."  She  leaned 
forward,  chin  sunk,  her  eyes  pleading. 

He  halted  beside  her  and  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"  Little  Mem-sahib !  "  he  crooned,  and  kneeled  one 
moment  that  he  might  claim  her  lips.  "  You  have 
brought  Heaven  nearer — but  it  is  as  well  you  have  wits 


342  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

of  your  own,  for  mine  are  wandering.  Just  as  well,  too," 
he  joked,  rubbing  his  cheek  with  her  hand,  "  that  you 
happen  to  be  contralto.  .  .  .  Smudge  that  upper  lip  of 
yours  a  trifle  and  leave  the  game  to  me,  I  will  draw  on 
what  I  used  to  call  my  imagin " 

The  steward  marched  past  and  into  the  alleyway, 
where  he  rang  a  bell.  O  Hagan  was  on  his  feet  in  a 
moment. 

"  That  is  how  we  shall  get  bowled,"  he  whispered. 
"  We  can't  be  too  careful  here.  My  fault,  of  course — er 
— have  you  thought  of  a  name,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  T.  Brown,  Den.     It  is  on  my  trunk." 

"  Your  trunk  ?  " 

"  Yes — I  couldn't  very  well  do  without  one,  could  I  ? 
I  sent  it  down  by  C.  P.  yesterday.  I  saw  it  on  deck,  you 
nearly  fell  over  it  once." 

O'Hagan  groaned. 

"  I'm  no  use  at  this  sort  of  thing,"  he  complained. 
"  I  should  have  forgotten  the  trunk.  I  should  have  for- 
gotten my  head  if  I  had  had  to  plan  it  all  ...  Well,  well ! 
I  am  thankful  to  see  you  near  after  all.  The  future  must 
take  care  of  itself.  Meanwhile  I  expect  they  are  waiting 
for  dinner — no,  supper.  And  your  name  is  Brown — Tom 
Brown,  eh  ?  and  I  think  it  likely  I  shall  call  you  Kiddy 
as  usual.  Come  in  to  supper.  The  mate  will  be  there. 
I  will  introduce  you.  Keep  that  muffler  and  cap  on. 
The  cap  rather  suits  you." 

The  steward  re-entered  the  saloon  as  they  took  their 
places,  O'Hagan  at  the  head,  Lucy  on  his  right.  O'Hagan 
looked  across  at  him  as  he  stood  with  finger  and  thumb 
gripping  a  rather  pointed  chin,  taking  in  the  presence  of  a 
stranger. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  I  meant  to  speak  of  it  sooner. 
Mr.  Brown  is  a  friend  of  mine.  He  decided  to  come  at 
the  last  minute.  Just  lay  for  him  in  future,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir — certainly,  sir,"  said  the  steward,  but  he 
wondered  where  Mr.  Brown  had  been  all  these  hours. 

"  We  shall  have  to  knock  up  a  room  for  you  some- 
where," O'Hagan  decided,  glancing  at  Lucy  as  the  mate 
appeared.  He  came  in  slowly,  passing  between  swivel 
chairs  and  table,  and  took  his  place  vis-a-vis  with  the 
captain's  friend. 

He  sat  down  and  unfolded  his  napkin,  his  eyes  down- 
cast, but  aware  of  strange  happenings. 


A  THIN  SHEET  OF   STEEL  343 

"  Still  clear  on  deck  ?  "  O'Hagan  asked,  to  break  the 
silence. 

"  Verra  clear,  sir.  Wonderfully  clear,  when  you  remem- 
ber whaur  the  wind  is." 

"  Beachy  Head  shows  up  all  right,  anyhow.  Is  it  on 
the  four-point  bearing  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  sir — but  will  be  shortly,  verra  shortly  now." 

The  steward  brought  plate,  knives  and  forks  and  placed 
them  before  Mr.  Brown ;  then  lifted,  with  an  air,  the 
cover  from  a  dish  before  O'Hagan. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  commander.  "  Cutlets  ! "  He  looked 
at  Lucy  and  questioned — "  May  I  give  you  one  ?  " 

Lucy  admitted  she  was  quite  ready  and  probably 
would  require  more  than  one.  O'Hagan  smiled  and 
turned  to  the  mate  to  say — "  This  is  a  friend  of  mine — 
Mr.  Brown — Mr.  Treegan.  A  very  old  friend,  who 
decided  at  the  last  moment  to  join  us  for  the  trip." 

The  two  bowed,  and  Treegan,  as  was  his  custom,  said — 
"  Verra  pleased  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir,"  and 
added — "  Likely  that  wull  be  your  box  that's  been 
puzzlin'  us  aa  ?  " 

"I  expect  so,"  Lucy  answered.  "I  am  sorry  it  has 
bothered  you.  I  ought  to  have  addressed  it  'Care  of 
Captain  O'Hagan,'  I  suppose?" 

"  It  would  have  been  easier  to  identify  so,"  the  mate 
gave  back,  his  eyes  lifted  to  the  bright  face  whence  came 
that  musical  utterance. 

O'Hagan  pressed  Lucy's  foot  with  his  own  and  said  in 
explanation — "  My  friend  has  but  lately  recovered  from 
an  operation — throat,  you  know,"  he  touched  his  own, 
nodding  gravely  at  the  mate.  "  His  doctor  ordered  him 
to  go  a  voyage — to  regain  strength,  but  he  refuses  to  sail 
with  strangers,  and  so  .  .  ." 

"  It's  rather  rough  on  Captain  O'Hagan,"  Lucy 
explained  in  her  clear  contralto,  pitched  low  for  his 
benefit.  "  I  have  never  been  in  a  Tramp  before.  I  have 
been  in  the  Eastern  Mail — to  India,  you  know — with  him, 
of  course.  I  hate  bad  weather.  It  frightens  me,  you 
know,  and  I  used  to  get  Captain  O'Hagan  to  let  me 
sleep  on  his  sofa — when  it  was  really  bad.  Do  you  think 
we  shall  have  fine  weather  all  the  way  ?  " 

The  mate  accepted  this  and  enjoyed  his  cutlets  as  a 
man  should  who  has  come  from  the  bridge  to  get  them. 
He  said  with  reference  to  the  weather — 


844  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Fine  all  the  way  ?  Nay — that's  no  likely.  We 
shall  get  oor  dusting  somewhere  here  or  yonder.  For 
your  sake  I'm  sorry  to  be  compelled  tae  admeet  it." 

"  Oh,  don't  heed  me,"  Lucy  smiled,  a  sad  gleam 
despite  her  phrasing.  "  I  shall  peg  out  all  right.  I 
don't  mind  if  the  wind  doesn't  tear  off  my  wraps.  I  have 
to  keep  them  on  still." 

"  Trouble  with  his  vocal  cords,"  O'Hagan  explained, 
and  wisely  left  it  there.  "  Let  me  send  you  another 
cutlet,  Mr.  Treegan." 

"  Thank  you — yes,  the  breeze  has  gee'n  me  hunger," 
said  the  mate. 

"  That  reminds  me."  O'Hagan,  on  glancing  up,  had 
caught  the  steward,  finger  and  thumb  on  chin,  studying 
Lucy's  profile.  "  Yes,  I  had  nearly  forgotten  it.  You 
need  not  trouble  about  preparing  a  cabin  to-night.  Mr. 
Brown  can  have  my  sofa — or  my  bed  as  far  as  that  goes — 
for  I  shall  be  on  the  bridge  and  in  the  chart-room  till  we 
are  clear  of  Channel." 

"  On  the  bridge  !  "  Lucy  exclaimed,  her  eyes  alight. 
"  May  I  come  up  too  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  mind  where  I 
sleep.  Sofa — anything ;  but  I  must  be  able  to  come  up 
and  see  things,  you  know." 

"  Of  course,  when  it  is  possible,"  O'Hagan  laughed  ; 
but  there  was  no  mirth,  no  ring  in  it,  and  Treegan  stared 
hard  at  the  cheese  which  was  before  him.  This  was  a 
strange  world,  a  verra  strange  world,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  he  said  without  words. 

So  it  ran — badinage,  explanation,  dust  for  the  eyes  of 
those  who  presently,  in  the  absence  of  Lucy  and  O'Hagan, 
would  make  random  suggestions  concerning  the  youth 
with  a  falsetto  voice  and  wonderful  complexion.  Who 
would  dissect,  traverse,  build  up  and  make  a  tangle  of 
statements  and  actions,  however  commonplace.  For 
that  is  the  way  with  those  who  carry  lives  in  their  hands 
at  sea,  even  in  these  days  of  radio-telegraphy  and  a  Morse 
Code  which  throws  broadcast  a  cry  for  help  and  waits 
confidently  its  coming. 

John  Treegan,  more  often  called  Jock,  was  one  of  the 
men  Lucy  would  be  compelled  to  meet  constantly ;  the 
steward  was  another ;  Jeff  Evans,  the  second  mate, 
another,  and  all  three  had  seen  her  when  she  came  to  the 
ship  in  dock.  She  had  determined  on  this  escapade, 


A  THIN  SHEET  OF  STEEL  845 

as  she  now  called  it,  after  her  first  day  on  board.  Since 
then  neither  officer  nor  steward  had  seen  her  without  a 
veil.  To  be  quite  plain,  the  matter  of  recognition  troubled 
O'Hagan  more  than  it  did  Lucy.  She  argued  that,  since 
certain  facts  had  come  to  her  knowledge,  she  could  not 
stay  away,  and  recognition  was  immaterial. 

While  Den  was  with  her  she  was  at  peace.  When  he 
was  absent,  now  that  the  child  had  passed  out  of  their 
lives,  Lucy  was  like  one  bereft  of  all  hope.  If  she  could 
have  compelled  him,  Denis  would  never  have  come  this 
voyage,  nor  entered  again  the  service  of  people  who  had 
robbed  him,  spoiled  his  life,  and  caused  the  death  of  his 
child.  Curiously,  Den  did  not  quite  follow  her  there, 
and  Stephen  Hammond  had  urged  him  to  accept.  Sharum, 
too,  had  spoken  in  sorrow — as  though  he  knew  its  meaning. 
A  small  sneer  appeared  with  the  words.  Lucy  had  a  very 
large  trend  of  contempt  for  the  average  masculine  intelli- 
gence, but  Den  was  higher  than  these.  He  was  a  giant 
among  pigmies,  straight  where  others  were  crooked, 
faithful,  kind — her  husband.  Therefore  he  could  do  no 
wrong — no  stupidity ;  but  Lucy,  as  the  hours  went  by, 
was  constrained  to  ask  for  guidance  as  she  had  never 
asked  before. 

Now  that  the  Griselda  was  on  her  way  she  recognised 
that  Peter  Witterspoon's  note  would  be  tested.  She 
questioned  whether  it  had  been  launched  to  keep  her  on 
shore.  She  questioned,  too,  whether  the  talk  she  had 
overheard  was  just  or  unjust  of  the  ship.  Time  would 
test  these  things — time  and  a  gale.  She  questioned 
whether  Den  knew,  and  decided  to  sound  him. 

Beachy  Head,  with  the  lights  of  Eastbourne  twinkling 
nearly  to  its  summit,  claimed  her  attention  as  she  came  on 
deck  to-night.  The  sea  remained  kind,  the  breeze  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  dispel  all  fog  ;  the  dark  hours  spent  on 
the  bridge  with  her  husband,  part  of  that  beautiful 
enchantment  which  no  man  could  steal,  no  earth  cover. 

Both  suffered.  But  either  would  have  suffered  more 
apart.  They  required  bracing,  and  the  sea  would  do  that. 
They  required  a  change  of  scene,  something  to  take  them 
out  of  themselves,  to  compel  forgetfulness,  and  the  sea  was 
competent  to  do  even  that. 

Lucy  decided  that  to-night  she  could  not  sleep,  and 
begged  O'Hagan  to  let  her  have  a  deck-chair  and  a  rug 
on  the  bridge — not  where  the  navigators  march,  signal, 


346  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

and  pray  for  the  end  of  their  watch,  but  on  the  chart- 
room  level,  where  one  can  find  shelter  perhaps  beside  a 
boat. 

And  here,  at  something  past  one  in  the  morning,  the 
breeze  growing  light,  Selsey  Bill's  red  sector  vanished, 
O'Hagan  found  Lucy  not  yet  asleep.  He  brought  a  low 
chair,  sat  beside  her,  and  searched  for  her  hands  beneath 
the  rug. 

"  Warm  ?  "  he  asked,  leaning  over  her  in  the  dark,  "  and 
not  asleep  ?  " 

"  Oh,  so  comfy,"  she  whispered,  catching  his  hand  and 
imprisoning  it.  "  No — thinking.  I  shall  sleep  when  you 
sleep,  watch  when  you  watch,  be  hungry  when  you  are 
hungry — oh  dearest  .  .  .  because,  because  you  are  all 
I  have  and  the  world  is  rather  crowded.  It  would  be  so 
easy  to  miss  you,  even  here,  Den.  I  daren't  miss  you 
now.  It  would  kill  me.  I  couldn't  go  away  alone. 
It  wouldn't  be  fair — and — and  Baba  would  ask  .  .  ." 

She  turned  shivering  in  her  chair,  and  Denis  leaned  over, 
holding  her  hands  in  his,  thrilling  to  her  cry. 

"  You  shall  not  miss  me  when  it  comes  to  that,"  he  said 
in  her  ear.  "  I  shall  be  with  you — but,"  he  strove  to 
rally  her  in  a  voice  which  lacked  enthusiasm,  the  voice  of 
one  acknowledging  defeat,  "  look  up,  oh  dearest,  we  are 
not  going  to  lose — we  are  going  to  win.  Remember, 
Worsdale  will  be  at  home  when  we  get  back.  Fancy,  I 
shall  have  scotched  ill-luck,  beaten  the  Black  Listers  and, 
perhaps,  who  knows  .  .  .  Oh  !  if  a  chance  comes  my  way 
I  shall  have  won  my  star." 

"  But,  if  a  chance  comes,"  she  whispered,  "  what  will 
it  be  like  ?  " 

"  Salvage,"  he  said  simply. 

"  Where— when  ?  " 

He  nodded  towards  the  distant  sea.  "  Out  there — this 
trip,  next  trip,  some  time.  One  cannot  be  on  the  western 
ocean  these  days  without  coming  across  chances.  Ships 
run  in  a  lane  narrow  as  those  of  Sussex.  Up  there  a  lane 
going  out,  down  there  a  lane  for  home.  And  there  are 
meeting  points.  It  is  very  crowded  sometimes  .  .  ." 

He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  his  hand  on  Lucy's. 

"  We  shall  be  facing  the  unknown  sea,  presently, 
which  Sebastian  Cabot  crossed  and  found  so  lonely  in  the 
days  that  were.  You  are  here  and  should  know  these 
things,  in  case  ...  oh  well,  in  case  we  come  across  one 


A  THIN  SHEET  OF  STEEL  347 

of  those  moments  which  exist  now  as  they  never  did  for 
Cabot.  .  .  . 

"  Ignorance  and  '  henps  of  ice '  were  the  main  difficulties 
he  had  to  contend  with  ;  but  to-day  the  ignorance  of  his 
crew  has  been  transferred  to  those  who  sit  in  comfort  at 
home  to  rule  us — to  rule  the  greatest  fleet  of  merchant 
shipping  the  world  has  ever  seen.  England  lives  and 
breathes  because  I  and  thousands  like  me  loved  the  sea 
as  a  boy  and  came  out  to  discover  it ;  it  lives  very  com- 
fortably and  is  content  now  and  again  to  put  its  hand  in 
its  pocket  to  find  something  for  the  dependants  of  those 
who  have  gone  under. 

"  You  and  I,  to-day,  Kiddy,  have  no  fear.  We  stand  in 
a  world  that  is  not  concerned  whether  we  stand  or  fall— 
and  we,  I  think,  do  not  much  care  what  happens.  I 
expected  to  come  out  here  alone,  Mem-sahib,  perhaps  to 
give  you  a  chance,  to  free  you  from  the  chain  which  seems 
to  be  riveted  somehow  rather  securely  round  my  neck  .  .  . 
but  you  chose  otherwise — and  so  I  tell  you  what  we  face 
to-day  at  sea.  We  are  driven,"  he  told  her,  without  pas- 
sion. "  We  have  no  voice  in  the  equipment  or  the  lading 
of  our  ships.  We  sail  on  lines  drawn  on  a  chart  by  men 
in  an  office  at  home.  There  is  no  money  to  be  made  or 
any  chance  for  the  future.  .  .  . 

"  I  am  speaking  to  you  now  with  my  memory  at  work 
on  things  that  lie  behind  very  plain  suggestions  I  have  met 
pointing  the  way.  I  know  I  am  telling  you  of  what  the 
vast  majority  face  day  in,  day  out,  without  question, 
because  the  majority  are  tied  hand  and  foot  to  the  thing 
which  earns  them  bread.  There  is  not  much  taste  to 
nothing.  We  get  a  good  deal  of  nothing,  who  are  sailors. 
...  Do  I  worry  you  ?  No  !  I  know,  I  know.  We,  at 
all  events,  have  no  doubt  about  ourselves.  We  stand  or 
fall  together.  .  .  ." 

He  leaned  near  and  touched  her  forehead  with  his  lips 

"  You  are  mine,"  he  interjected,  "  but  I  cannot  win 
you  more  than  bread.  .  .  .  Whisht !  the  spirit  of  the 
dear  old  guv'nor  stands  by  me  to-night  telling  me  to  fight. 
And  we  shall  fight.  Perhaps  we  shall  win,  who  knows  ? 
Not  you  nor  I,  oh  dearest  ...  yet  we  shall  fight." 

Again  he  was  silent  a  short  space,  and  the  wind  trailed 
up  following  them,  making  its  entry  in  the  great  tressels  at 
the  mast  even  as  in  the  days  when  ships  were  clothed  in 
fleecy  white  and  the  sun  looked  out  to  kiss  them. 


348  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Cabot  faced  seas  which  were  bare  of  other  ships,"  he 
said  again.  "  We  face  them  in  a  crowd,  all  pounding  along 
in  a  great  hurry  to  lower  the  record,  and  to  make  a  voyage 
which  shall  show  a  better  return  than  last  voyage.  .  .  . 

"  Cabot  faced  seas  in  a  ship  which  might  hammer  even 
on  the  rocks  and  maintain  some  likeness  to  a  ship  for 
hours  ;  we  face  them  in  a  thing  that  cracks  like  a  bottle 
if  she  is  hit,  and  disappears  like  a  breath.  You  have  to 
be  lively  if  you  would  be  saved  in  these  days  from  the 
results  of  a  collision.  You  require  to  live  in  a  Boynton 
suit.  .  .  . 

"  Cabot  faced  rocks  which  were  stationary,  fixed  to 
the  coasts ;  we  face  those  rocks  and  others  which  are 
afloat.  Every  steamship  is  a  floating  rock,  oh  Mem- 
sahib,  for  the  vessel  that  blunders  against  her  or  is  hit 
by  her.  Ten  thousand,  twenty,  thirty,  fifty  thousand 
tons  weight  go  swishing  past  you,  perhaps  at  ten,  perhaps 
at  twenty  knots  an  hour,  when  a  steamship  passes. 
And  that  weight  is  cased  in  steel,  steel  bulkheads  to  help 
it,  steel  double  skins  for  some  of  them.  Their  makers 
say  they  are  unsinkable — Whisht !  WTill  they  repeat  it 
when  they've  been  in  collision  ?  Will  they  stick  to  their 
formulas  when  a  ship  has  rolled  over  on  the  top  of  them, 
when  the  side  has  been  ripped  out  of  her,  wrhen  her  nose  is 
flattened  and  you  can  drive  a  coach  and  four  into  her  hold 
.  .  .  Whisht !  I'm  glad  he's  gone,  my  God  !  I'm  glad  .  .  ." 

He  threw  back,  without  explanation,  to  the  loss  of  their 
child.  Lucy,  gripping  more  tightly,  understood. 

"  That  fellow  said  he  might  have  been  saved  if  we  could 
have  got  him  out  of  London — saved,  oh  dearest,  you 
remember." 

She  nodded,  the  tears  blinding  her,  and  in  a  voice  quick 
with  emotion,  O'Hagan  lashed  on — 

"  Saved  to  be  a  sailor — who  knows  ?  It  was  in  the 
blood.  To  be  a  sailor  to-day  is  to  be  the  supreme  drudge 
of  all — the  nation's  drudge,  the  thing  which  tends  the 
machines  which  feed  it  .  .  .  to  be  a  sailor  !  To  suffer  as 
I  have  and  you  have,  to  be  pushed  down  and  down 
until  you  have  reached  the  Black  List,  to  become  derelict, 
one  of  the  forgotten,  driven  into  the  workhouse,  or  perhaps 
found  a  Home  by  someone  interested  in  keeping  you  hid. 

"  I  know  a  Home,"  he  hissed  out,  "  where  they  stow 
away  sailors  who  are  derelict.  These  men  start  as  boys 
in  smart  uniforms  ;  they  join  the  sea  clean,  alert,  full  of 


A  THIN  SHEET  OF  STEEL  349 

hope,  and  they  come  out  tired,  derelict,  men  who  have 
escaped  many  drownings  only  to  end  life  in  the  oblivion 
of  a  Home  which  fines  a  man  of  his  weekly  pocket  money, 
the  sixpence  someone  doles  to  him,  one  halfpenny  if  he  is 
late  for  prayers  ;  and  stops  the  tobacco  a  wealthy  patron 
has  provided  for  his  comfort — if  he  is  late  within  doors  at 
night.  .  .  . 

"Blind  chance  has  been  this  man's  overlord,  oh  my 
wife.  Steel  ships  governed  by  the  laws  of  Merrie  England 
his  home.  The  pittance  he  has  been  permitted  to  earn 
insufficient  to  keep  him  warm.  .  .  .  Baba  live  for  that  ? 
Our  Baba — mavourneen  !  I  am  tired  of  their  flummery 
.  .  .  tired,  bitter  perhaps  ;  but  what  has  gone  to  my 
making  is  answerable  for  what  I  am.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  may 
live  to  tell  them  .  .  .  perhaps  we  shall  live  to  make  some 
of  them  feel  who,  as  God  made  me,  I  believe  are  of 
wood!  .  .  ." 

Lucy  drew  his  hand  near,  pressing  it  to  her  breast,  and 
whispered — "  I  am  glad  you  have  told  me.  I — think  I 
understand." 

The  Griselda,  rolling  slightly  before  the  wind,  ploughed 
solemnly  over  a  sea  which  had  no  confines,  which  melted 
into  the  sky  without  a  break  and  made  its  dome  immense. 
Stars  stood  high  up  in  the  blueness.  Mist  shrouded  the 
lower  heavens.  The  sea  curled,  mocking  the  ship's 
staring  eyes  with  blobs  of  light — dim,  pulsing,  tinged  with 
flame. 

"Remember,  I  am  going  to  win,  Mem-sahib,"  O'Hagan 
pressed  into  the  silence,  perhaps  because  it  might  seem  he 
had  given  way. 

Lucy  shrank  in  her  chair  as  one  does  who  parts  from 
her  lover  before  war.  With  her  voice  in  fine  control  she 
gave  him  her  answer — 

"  You  are  my  soul — how  then  can  I  forget  ?  " 

But  in  her  mind  she  saw  pictures  of  the  fights  which  have 
been,  remembered  Jimmy  Barlow  and  the  star*  he  had 
won,  saw  the  tiny  Casa  Blanca  passing  down  that  tremen- 
dous coast  to  her  engagement. 

And  the  song  of  the  sea  was  in  Lucy's  ears.  She  heard 
the  monotone,  thrummed  on  muted  strings,  which  is  the 
sea's  warning — the  everlasting  murmur  of  a  giant  at  rest, 
a  giant  subtle  and  mdiscriminating,  mindful  always  of 
those  who  challenge. 

*  Vessels  lost  at  sea  are  marked  on  the  wreck  chart  by  a  star. 


350  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

The  Griselda  challenged.  She  marched  during  the  winter 
months  for  a  lading  in  America's  chief  city,  and  as  Treegan, 
the  mate,  stated  while  still  they  were  in  dock,  she  was 
old  and  not  fit  to  carry  a  deckload.  It  may  be  that  Lucy, 
through  lack  of  knowledge,  magnified  this  statement  in  her 
mind.  It  may  be  that  she  would  have  come  this  trip 
even  had  she  not  heard  it.  But  it  reached  her  ear  after 
Den  had  been  appointed.  It  constituted  one  of  the  chief 
reasons  of  her  presence  here,  disguised  and  carrying  a 
small  revolver,  to  take  her  chance  like  a  man.  It  stood 
over  her  now,  waking  or  sleeping,  as  no  other  hint  could. 
She  became  afraid  under  the  threat  it  held  out.  In  a 
sense,  therefore,  Lucy  posed  also  in  the  guise  of  one  who 
challenged,  who  would  propitiate,  plead,  pray  so  that  she 
maintain  her  right  to  stand  or  fall  beside  her  husband. 

On  the  bridge,  just  forward  of  their  chairs,  a  gong  said 
— "  Tong,  tong,  tong — light  right  ahead,"  and  O'Hagan 
sat  upright,  staring  over  the  bows.  The  ship  plunged  on, 
breaking  the  bubbles  her  forefoot  had  made. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  Lucy  asked,  recognising  the  still  attitude 
which  had  come  to  him. 

"  A  vessel  ahead  .  .  .  Treegan  has  it — nothing  to  worry 
about." 

"  You  rely  on  the  mate,  then  ?  "  she  whispered,  watching. 
"  Is  he  one  of  the  sort  you  feel  you  can  trust  ?  " 

"  In  anything,"  he  answered,  "  within  reason,  of  course. 
He  has  been  in  her  a  long  while,  and  knows  her  tricks." 

He  maintained  an  alert  attitude  nevertheless,  and  Lucy 
felt  his  fingers  slowly  leaving  her  hand.  She  gave  him 
his  freedom  without  words. 

Again  the  gong  spoke — "  Tong — tong,"  this  time,  and 
O'Hagan  twisted  to  the  right. 

"  It  is  thicker  than  it  was,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  go  to 
Mount  Misery  for  a  bit,"  he  indicated  the  bridge  here, 
"  and  in  an  hour  it  will  be  daylight.  Try  to  get  a  sleep 
meanwhile." 

She  lifted  her  face  to  his  and  gave  him  his  answer, 
"  Kiss  me,  dearest,  and  I  will." 

He  glanced  about  the  dim  deck  and  stooped  over  her. 
"  This  is  more  difficult  than  in  the  dear  old  Saladin,"  he 
laughed.  "  Good-night  ...  I  must  go." 

The  Griselda  stole  ten  minutes  later  past  a  boat  which 
came  out  of  the  mist  nearly  in  line  with  her  track,  crept 
up  to  give  way  for  another,  whose  stern  light  had  called 


A  THIN  SHEET   OF  STEEL  351 

for  the  second  signal,  and  thereafter,  until  the  sun  rose 
like  a  crimson  shield  in  the  ship's  wake,  the  wind  blew 
steadily  upon  them,  sweeping  the  sea  of  all  mist. 

So  they  lurched  down  Channel,  saluted  the  headlands 
which  are  crowned  by  signal  stations,  cleared  the  land, 
and  headed  into  the  Western  Ocean.  Beyond  Cape  Clear 
the  wind  veered,  and  the  Griselda  settled  down  to  a 
punching  match,  which  lasted  with  small  intermission 
until  she  came  in  touch  with  the  Banks.  Small  westerly 
winds  blew  in  her  teeth.  Sou'-west,  west,  nor'-west, 
but  no  gales  calculated  to  try  those  plates  of  which 
Treegan  had  spoken  disparagingly.  Would  they  be 
tested  now,  or  were  they  to  enter  New  York  with  a 
record  for  fine  weather  ? 

O'Hagan  had  his  doubts,  so  had  the  mates.  Lucy 
listened  and  had  hers.  Treegan  prayed  for  what  he 
called  a  fresh  hand  at  the  bellows.  They  spoke  of  fog  and 
that  night  moved  groaning  through  it,  alert  for  passing 
vessels.  The  horn  played  its  melancholy  music  over 
them.  It  said  with  monotonous  iteration — "  Look  out,  I 
am  coming  along.  I  am  under  way,"  and  those  who 
sounded  it  listened  for  answering  cries.  None  came. 
Sometimes  they  stopped  engines  and  lay  still,  straining 
to  hear,  sometimes  moved  slowly  on. 

They  had  come  to  the  meeting  place  of  ships  bound 
east  or  west  down  Cabot  Straits  from  the  Gulf  of  St. 
Lawrence.  Cape  Race  lay  nearly  due  north,  and  fog  in 
this  neighbourhood  is  a  standing  feature. 

Sometimes  for  days  together  the  horizon  is  confined  to 
a  dim  circle  in  which  the  ship's  head  and  stern  are  lost ; 
sometimes  it  is  of  a  kind  known  as  intermittent — clear 
in  patches,  foul,  blanket-like  in  others.  And  here,  as 
O'Hagan  acknowledged,  some  vessels  move  at  full  speed 
trusting  to  their  horns  and  their  heels,  and  others  go  slow. 
Here  the  dead  slow  of  a  mailship  is  the  full  speed  of  a 
Griselda,  and  the  ship  which  steams  slowly  is  in  greater 
danger  than  the  ship  which  steams  at  full  speed. 

Lucy  had  gone  that  night  for  rest  to  a  settee  in  the 
smoking-room  aft.  She  did  not  expect  to  sleep.  Only 
those  who  have  graduated  at  sea  can  boast  of  sleep  when 
the  fog-horn  is  on  duty.  Yet  she  dozed,  waking  each 
time  the  engines  stopped,  or  again  at  the  more  powerful 
cry  of  the  siren  which  sometimes  was  used.  That  was 
unearthly,  weird,  horrible ;  but  each  time  Lucy  awoke 


352  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

to  the  fact  of  its  scream,  she  did  so  with  greater  reluctance, 
a  greater  lassitude  and  sinking  of  the  nerves  which  control. 
Sometimes  it  seemed  she  had  dozed  but  a  minute  ;  but 
on  reference  to  the  watch  she  found  time  had  escaped. 
Reluctantly  she  acknowledged  it,  lying  fully  dressed — 
all  standing,  as  it  is  phrased  at  sea.  She  pictured  the 
discomfort  Den  endured  on  Mount  Misery,  and  would 
have  solaced  him.  But  with  the  advent  of  fog  he  banished 
her  .  .  .  and  again  she  slept. 

She  awoke  suddenly  and  lay  listening,  noting  the 
gyrations  of  the  lamp  which  bobbed  and  lurched  over  the 
stairs.  It  was  soundless  now,  yet  something  had  called 
her,  something  she  had  not  known  before,  something 
which  set  her  shivering  as  she  lay  there  at  question. 
The  night  held  out  no  sign  which  she  could  read.  The 
heavy  air  drifted  in  and  made  her  wet.  Her  hair  was 
wet,  the  pillow  and  the  rug  which  covered  her.  Her 
heels  pushing  on  the  crimson  velvet  of  the  settee  as  the 
ship  rolled,  scrooped  as  they  slid.  The  jar  set  her  on 
edge ;  and  from  the  confines  of  space  there  came  to 
trouble  her,  Captain  Worsdale's  phrase  so  often  repeated 
by  Den  as  evidence  of  the  man's  perspicacity. 

"  Remember,  my  boy,  now  you  are  in  command,  there 
is  only  a  thin  sheet  of  steel  between  you  and  Eternity  .  .  . 
Take  that  from  me  and  go  easy  when  you  can't  see.  ..." 

Again — "  It  is  not  you  I  am  afraid  of,  but  the  anxiety 
of  all  young  shipmasters  to  make  a  passage  smarter 
than  some  other  body.  Keep  off  that  madness.  If  your 
company  want  you  to  take  risks  they  do  not  pay  you  to 
take — come  out  of  it.  There  are  those  who  do.  ..." 

The  burden  all  through  this  was  :  Take  care — you  are  in 
a  brittle  enough  box,  take  every  precaution.  And  now 
as  Lucy  lay  there  so  near  the  sea,  listening  to  the  glut- 
tonous clutch  of  its  fingers,  she  experienced  a  dread  lest 
she  should  be  unable  to  find  Den.  Nothing  yet  had 
attacked  the  "  thin  sheet  of  steel,"  but  Lucy  was  shaken. 
Something  had  happened.  She  glanced  at  the  watch 
she  wore  on  her  wrist,  an  evidence  of  dandyism  in  the 
mate's  eyes,  and  saw  that  it  was  half-past  three.  She 
lay  on  her  elbow  listening.  The  engines  were  stopped. 
Would  they  go  on  again  ?  Why  did  they  not  ?  A  far- 
off  boom  disturbed  her. 

She  could  face  the  solitude  no  longer.     Not  a  soul  in 


A   THIN  SHEET  OF   STEEL  35:3 

that  ship  had  any  knowledge  of  her  straits  but  Den,  and 
he  could  not  come  near.  She  had  no  fear  while  he  wan 
with  her  ;  only  a  white-hot  desire,  which  must  be  kept  in 
subjection,  to  minister  to  his  comfort.  She  rose  now 
from  her  rugs  and  with  a  heavy  coat  thrown  over  nil, 
made  her  way  by  the  plank  bridge  to  the  deck,  above 
which  O'Hagan  stood  with  his  subordinates. 

Lucy  crept  along  gripping  the  man-rope,  swaying  with 
it  over  a  chasm  as  the  ship  lurched.  She  had  no  fear  ; 
but  on  the  other  hand  she  could  not  see  the  dangers  which 
surrounded  her.  She  came  groping  like  a  blind  man  to 
the  end,  and  saw  the  small  round  loom  of  a  port.  She 
advanced  and  stared  through  into  the  engine-room.  The 
sizzling  of  oil  and  the  smell  of  it  assailed  her  here.  She 
could  see  it  dancing,  spitting  on  the  hot  cylinder  covers. 
And  all  around,  as  she  withdrew  her  gaze,  was  the  slobber 
of  the  sea. 

She  stood  there,  clad  in  man's  garments  in  order  to  be 
near  her  husband.  As  a  woman  she  wyould  have  had 
finer  opportunities.  As  a  man  it  seemed  inevitable  that 
she  must  take  a  man's  risks.  And  the  world  was  very 
empty  just  here. 

Space  everywhere,  space  made  luminous  by  a  moon 
somewhere  lifted  and  shining  on  a  world  screened  in  mist. 
It  gave  an  iridescence  to  the  darkness  which  had  the 
effect  of  semi-blindness.  Lucy  saw  men  as  trees  walking 
without  knowing  it.  It  was  cold,  too,  raw,  wet,  and 
somewhere  farther  along  that  stretch  of  deck,  obstacled 
by  things  she  did  not  know,  Denis  O'Hagan  stood  in 
control.  Lucy  wanted  to  shout  his  name,  but  as  a  man 
that  was  impossible.  The  ship  lurched  to  starboard. 
She  clutched  at  the  rail  and  saved  herself  at  the  expense 
of  a  wrench.  She  decided  to  follow  the  rail,  and  moved 
on  until  having  rounded  an  angle  her  head  came  in  con- 
tact with  something  that  stood  over  her  on  the  left. 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  feel,  and  it  traced  the  inequali- 
ties of  a  clinker-built  boat,  one  of  the  two  which  sat  so 
securely  lashed  on  chocks  on  either  side  of  the  ship.  She 
moved  on,  recognising  it  as  a  friend  meeting  one  he  knows 
in  a  fog-bound  street.  She  groped  and  came  to  a  stay, 
something  wet  and  cold  to  the  touch,  which  spanned  her 
path.  She  must  cross  it,  get  under  it,  over  it — she  could 
not  decide  which. 

Voices  made  talk  somewhere  near ;    dull,  monotonous 

B.F.  A  A 


354  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

voices  which  said  nothing  she  could  hear.  She  wanted  to 
cry  out,  to  call  on  Den  to  come  and  help  her  ;  but  because 
she  was  a  man  she  choked  back  the  desire  and  climbed 
straddle-legged  the  wire  as  nearly  in  a  panic  as  was  per- 
missible. What  was  on  the  other  side  ?  She  pushed  out 
to  discover.  Nothing.  An  open  space  beneath  which 
unseen  seas  climbed  and  retreated  licking  the  ship's  side. 
Without  in  the  least  knowing  her  nearness  to  that  end 
about  which  we  prate  and  gesticulate,  Lucy  drew  back 
quite  certain  she  must  make  no  more  experiments  in  mid- 
air, but  trust  to  the  deck,  the  deck  she  could  feel.  Far 
off  a  hooter  brayed  to  test  her. 

She  sank  on  her  knees,  and  with  one  hand  groping 
before,  her  lips  uttering  Den's  name,  she  crawled  back 
from  her  entanglement.  Tears  ran  down  her  cheeks 
unchecked.  The  fog  had  blinded  her,  the  fog  had  made 
her  wet,  it  could  not  matter.  There  was  a  sense  of  com- 
fort in  tears,  a  sense  of  relief  after  the  long  weariness  of 
solitude,  strain  and  risk.  She  could  have  hugged  the 
deck  upon  which  she  crawled  j  but  she  would  not  cry 
for  help,  break  down  now  she  had  come  so  far  unsuspected. 

Again  voices  assailed  her  ears.  Minute,  far  off — very 
blurred  and  indistinct,  not  the  voices  she  had  listened  to 
previously — and  again  she  clung  to  the  deck,  uncon- 
sciously coming  nearer  the  sounding  board.  Talk, 
shouts,  a  jumbled  and  fascinating  mixture  accompanied 
by  strange  bubblings,  came  to  her  ears.  The  blast  as  of 
steam  and  a  noise  which  shook  the  ship — dull,  far  off, 
and  in  the  midst  of  it  a  shriek  on  the  Griseldas  siren, 
which  for  hours  it  seemed  had  been  silent.  The  thrill  of 
her  engines  followed — a  short  spurt  ending  again  in  swift, 
indefinite  tremors. 

Something  had  happened,  was  happening  even  at  that 
moment ;  but  Lucy  could  not  grasp  the  significance  of 
those  sounds  except  in  a  confused  and  inappreciable 
fashion.  Yet  she  rose  from  the  deck  on  reaching  a  barrier 
and  stood  clinging  to  it,  calling  at  last  to  Den.  .  .  . 

"  Captain  O'Hagan  !  Captain  O'Hagan  !  "  How  strange 
it  sounded  !  How  ridiculous  !  Lucy  could  have  laughed ; 
but  for  some  reason  she  found  her  pulses  thrilling  and  knew 
that  at  length  she  was  afraid  ;  that  she  dared  not  laugh. 

Afraid  of  what  ?  She  stood  staring  into  the  void,  one 
hand  lifted  to  her  lips,  questioning  what  it  was  she  had 
heard,  calling  still  her  husband's  name. 


A  THIN  SHEET  OF  STEEL  855 

He  did  not  hear  her.  He  was  engaged  on  evolutions 
which  demand  great  skill  of  a  commander.  He  was  busy 
solving  the  riddle  of  that  unknown  thing  which,  in  spite 
of  the  fog,  had  sent  signals  which  had  halted  the  Griselda  ; 
a  thing  which  had  waked  Lucy  and  put  her  in  touch  with 
affairs  she  could  not  explain — a  thing  inanimate  and  yet 
in  trouble,  holding  with  a  "  thin  sheet  of  steel  "  all  those 
who  had  worked  her  from  the  results  of  their  blindness. 
And  into  the  wall  of  fog  Lucy  sent  her  cry — "  Captain 
O'Hagan  !  Hallo  !  Hallo  1  "  came  in  clear  contralto, 
iterated,  sung,  shouted,  until  a  deeper  voice  fell  upon  the 
periods  saying — 

"  Yes — yes  !  Hallo !  Where  are  you  ?  "  and  she  recog- 
nised that  someone  was  at  hand. 

"  On  the  bridge  deck  !  "  she  sang  again,  "  between  the 
engine  room  and  the  plank  bridge.  ..." 

"  Is  it  Mr.  Brown  ?  "  called  the  voice. 

"  Yes  !  " 

And  in  Lucy's  brain  the  answer  ran  on  and  on  thus — 
"  or  Mr.  Smith  or  Mr.  Jones  .  .  .  anybody,  you  know, 
who  is  nobody.  ..." 

"  Stay  where  you  are,  sir  ...  it's  thick  as  peas 
pudding  and  twice  as  nasty,"  said  the  voice,  and  Lucy 
remained  clinging. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  deck,  somewhere  amidst  the 
fog,  voices,  thumps,  and  blows  went  on  in  a  genial  turmoil. 
One  of  the  crew  came  groping  up  a  ladder  from  the  main 
deck,  vaulted  the  rail  and  stood  before  Lucy. 

"  Bin  lookin'  fer  you  hevery-where,  sir,"  he  announced, 
"  aft,  for'ard,  in  the  smoke-room.  I've  got  to  take  you 
to  the  bridge.  The  old  man  sent  me.  ..." 

"  The  old  man  ?  "  Lucy  halted  over  the  description  and 
added,  "  Oh  yes — yes,  I  forgot.  What  is  happening  ?  " 

"  There's  bin  a  collision,  '  said  the  man  as  he  moved 
forward,  "  an'  we  ...  'ear  that  siren  ?  " 

"A  collision?  Are  we  damaged,  then.  ...  Is  that 
why  they  are  bumping  over  there  by  the  boats  ?  " 

"  Not  wiv  us,"  he  gave  back  in  terse  sentences,  "some 
chap  over  there.  'Im  that's  whistlin',"  he  jerked  with 
his  thumb  at  the  grey  wall  of  fog.  "  Somethin's  'it  'im 
an'  ee's  away  fer  the  cellar.  .  .  .' 

"So  we  are  sending  our  boats,  is  that  it  ?  "  Lucp 
inferred,  coming  near  the  bridge  at  last. 

"  We're  gettin'  'em  ready,  sir,"  was  his  answer.     "  They 

AA  2 


356  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

are  froze  in  wiv  paint  as  per  usual  .  .  .  and,"  he  added 
enigmatically,  "  we've  got  to  find  out  w'ere  ee  is." 

He  pushed  lightly  with  his  elbow,  piloting  Lucy  towards 
the  ladder.  "  Up  there,"  he  grumbled,  "  you'll  find  the 
old  man,"  and  Lucy  stood  alone. 

She  paused  and  caught  the  siren  note  more  plainly. 
She  seemed  confused.  Up  there  ?  Oh,  of  course — the 
bridge  was  beyond  the  stairs.  She  had  been  so  absorbed 
by  the  swift  sentences  of  her  guide  that  his  departure 
without  fuller  information  seemed  to  trouble  her.  Every- 
thing was  so  unreal  in  this  fog  except  the  sense  of  peril 
— that  was  very  real.  She  took  hold  and  climbed  the 
ladder  in  time  to  see  O'Hagan  cross  rapidly  and  push  the 
telegraph  down  to  full  speed.  The  siren  afar  off  kept  up 
a  nearly  continuous  wail. 

"  Port !  "  said  O'Hagan,  turning  back  to  the  wheel. 
Then,  looking  aft,  "  Hurry  up  with  that  boat.  Some  of 
you  prepare  No.  2." 

He  crossed  to  the  wing  and  Lucy  intercepted  him. 
"  You  sent  for  me,  Den — what  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Collision,  dearest.  Somebody  in  trouble.  I  thought 
you  would  like  to  see  what  goes  on."  He  turned  sharply 
on  his  heel  and  cried  out — "  How's  her  head  now  ?  " 

"  Nor'-nor'-east,  sir,"  the  helmsman  sang  out. 

"  Let  her  come  to  north-east  by  east  and  steady  her 
on  that !  " 

"  Aye  aye,  sir." 

O'Hagan  turned  to  Lucy,  gripping  her  arm  and 
marching  with  her  to  the  dodger. 

"  I  got  the  loom  of  her  just  now,"  he  said.  "  She  lies 
away  there."  He  pointed  over  the  starboard  bow.  "  I 
don't  know  whether  there  is  one  or  two  or  half  a  dozen — 
but  something  is  perishing  and  we  can't  see.  My  luck  ! 
perishing,  mind,  and  we  can't  see  !  "  He  stamped  it  out, 
staring  round  at  that  part  of  the  horizon  which  should 
have  shown  the  dawn  and  now  was  silvered. 

"  It's  your  chance,  dearest !  "  Lucy  called  in  his  ear, 
shivering,  clutching  his  arm. 

"  Hist !  for  God's  sake.  Evans  is  up  here  some- 
where." He  turned  about.  "  How's  her  head  now  ?  " 

"  Steadied  on  north-east  by  east,  sir,"  came  the  answer. 

"  Half  speed  !     Slow  !  " 

From  the  bridge  amidships  Evans'  calm  voice  reiterated 
the  order — "  Half  speed — slow  it  is,  sir." 


A  THIN  SHEET  OF  STEEL  357 

O'Hagan  breathed  more  easily. 

The  gong  clanged. 

'  If,'  said  Denis,  his  lips  very  near  Lucy's  small  ear, 
"  if  I  have  a  chance  now  I  shall  take  it,"  he  whispered, 
"  unless  .  .  .  that  is " 

She  reached  up,  checking  him,  touching  his  lips. 

"  Take  it,  oh  my  darling  .  .  .  and — and  God  be  with 
you,"  she  answered  him. 

They  gripped  hands.  The  fog  streamed  past,  making 
them  one.  Like  a  veil  shaken  and  torn  by  the  wind  it 
drove  between  masts  and  funnel,  and  again  it  grew  thinner. 
The  light  increased  with  each  minute,  and  O'Hagan, 
conning  his  ship,  took  all  risks  as  he  drove  her  towards 
that  smudge  which  now  showed  for  what  it  was  against 
the  sky. 

He  halted  near  and  whistled  with  long  and  short  blasts, 
"  I  am  sending  boats,"  and  through  the  megaphone 
repeated  it. 

A  blur  of  sound  drove  down  the  wind  to  him — a  roar 
no  man  could  decipher. 

"  Full  speed  ahead !  "  came  from  O'Hagan's  lips. 
"  Starboard  hard  !  " 

The  fog  had  become  a  mist  under  the  sun's  influence, 
and  the  engines  thrilled  as  the  old  Griselda  twisted  her  nose 
quite  near  the  sinking  vessel.  "  Stop  !  Steady  helm  !  " 

O'Hagan  passed  to  the  bridge  wing  and  cried  out, 
"  Lower  away  there.  Get  off  with  you  !  "  and  from  the 
near  boat  came  Treegan's  cheery  shout — "  Aye  aye,  sir  ! 
Down  with  her  !  " 

There  was  but  a  moderate  breeze,  yet  the  swell  ran 
steeply.  The  mate  moved  off  with  a  fine  flourish,  but 
No.  3  was  caught  by  the  rail  as  the  Griselda  rolled  down, 
and  in  a  moment  lay  battered,  sinking.  The  bo'sun  and 
crew  who  manned  her  scrambled  for  the  falls,  and  three 
reached.  Two  clung  to  the  boat,  treading  water. 

"  Clear  away  No.  4  !  Quick  there,  lifebuoys  overboard. 
Away  and  set  them  going,  Evans — then  come  back  here." 

O'Hagan  turned  to  the  chief's  boat,  which  was  halting. 
"  Go  on  !  "  he  cried  out.  "  Go  on  !  " 

And  out  there  in  the  mist  they  faced,  the  clamour  was 
increasing.  It  became  a  moan.  A  hoarse  cry  from  the 
throats  of  men  tilting  slowly  into  the  sea,  a  bellowing 
roar  from  the  boilers  imprisoned  below.  It  became  one 
in  aim  and  volume — a  shout  lifted  to  the  dome ;  and  as 


358  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

suddenly  it  became  broken,  spasmodic ;  a  brattle  of 
shrieks  and  yells  and  bubbling  groans. 

The  Griselda  moved  cautiously  to  the  front,  nosing  her 
way  in  a  littered  sea.  She  crept  up  with  her  three  small 
boats  scouting  ahead,  picking  up  those  who  were  seen. 
Men  floated  on  chairs,  on  gratings,  on  lifebuoys  ;  women 
clung  here — children,  groups  of  two  and  three,  and  some 
ducked  as  the  boats  drew  near  and  passed  screaming 
to  their  end.  Treegan  came  alongside  with  a  load.  A 
man  arrived  swimming,  but  failed  at  the  stroke  which 
should  have  put  him  in  safety.  No  one  saw  him.  He 
sank  without  sound. 

Out  there  in  the  mist  a  dog  swam  lustily,  yapping  as  it 
faced  the  waves.  Evans,  as  he  drew  near  the  ship, 
captured  him  and  pulled  him  on  board.  He  shook  him- 
self dry  in  the  faces  of  those  who  saved  him.  The  bo'sun's 
second  charge  crawled  home,  and  as  he  sent  up  his  load 
someone  cried  to  the  bridge — 

"  Dagos,  sir,"  and  again,  in  more  detailed  phrase,  as  he 
helped  to  push  a  child  up  the  side — "  Eye-talians,  sir — 
every  soul  of  'em." 

The  mist  fell  upon  them  as  they  worked,  and  at  a  signal 
the  boats  came  in  and  trailed  astern.  It  grew  thicker. 
It  became  so  dense  that,  for  a  while,  no  further  search 
could  be  made.  The  sea  rolled  lumpily  out  of  a  grey- 
green  curtain.  It  ran  cold.  Under  its  soothing  touch 
numbness  intervenes  and,  sleepily,  man  succumbs. 

They  moved  veiy  slowly  in  a  wide  circle,  searching 
seas  which  were  strewn  with  oddments,  buckets,  chairs, 
mattresses,  planks ;  but  no  victims  until,  suddenly, 
Treegan,  who  had  climbed  to  the  bridge,  cried  out — 

"  Yon's  one  !  " 

In  a  moment  O'Hagan  was  at  his  side,  staring  with  him 
at  a  face  which  slowly  disappeared. 

"  Take  charge  !  "  O'Hagan  ordered.  "  Call  one  of  the 
boats  up.  I'm  going." 

With  a  cheery  wave  of  the  hand  he  climbed  the  rail  and 
dived. 

Lucy  stood  quite  near,  watching  for  him.  Cold,  still, 
with  hands  tightly  gripping  the  rail,  she  awaited  his 
reappearance.  Treegan  damned  the  world  and  He  who 
made  it.  She  paid  no  heed.  Then  with  a  faint  "  Hurra  !  " 
sat  down  quite  close  to  the  bridge  rail  and  laughed, 
remembering  that  she  was  a  man. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   STAR  ? 

O'HAGAN  stood  on  the  bridge  again,  re-clad  after  that 
sudden  plunge  into  the  depths,  questioning  what  had 
come  to  him. 

By  hook  or  by  crook,  without  much  prescience,  he  had 
stumbled  upon  a  disaster  of  some  magnitude.  A  passenger 
vessel  of  sorts  had  gone  down  with  "  the  side  ripped  out 
of  her  "  by  "  some  ship  which  had  vanished  in  the  fog  " — 
and,  out  of  a  total  of  four  hundred  and  thirty-three 
passengers  and  crew,  the  Griselda  had  contrived  to  pick  up 
one  hundred  and  seventy-three.  This,  at  all  events,  was 
plain  from  a  glance  at  her  decks  ;  the  rest  was  gleaned  from 
statements  made  by  those  saved. 

Some  the  Griseldians  had  plucked  straight  from  the 
jumbled  stress  of  rafts  and  gratings,  buckets,  buoys, 
and  liner  chairs  ;  others  from  the  two  boats  which  the 
shipwrecked  crew  had  managed  to  launch ;  others  again 
by  sheer  gallantry,  from  the  sea  direct,  after  a  dive. 
O'Hagan  and  young  Evans  shone  here,  O'Hagan  having 
saved  three  and  Evans  two,  while  Treegan  paced  the 
bridge  damning  the  duty  which  kept  him  dry. 

And  when  all  these  things  had  been  weighed,  it  became 
essential  to  search  that  fog-bound  stretch  of  sea  for  others 
who  might  still  be  needing  succour.  Therefore  the 
Griselda  was  kept  cruising  in  a  circle,  her  foghorn  moaning, 
like  a  giant  imprisoned  and  weary  of  attempted  escape. 

O'Hagan  stood  on  the  bridge  looking  down  upon  a 
strange  scene,  Lucy  beside  him.  Through  the  steaming 
air  it  was  possible  to  perceive  groups  of  shaggy-headed 
men  and  drenched  women.  Some  lay  prone  upon  the 
deck  while  others  bent  over  them,  pumping  with  their 
arms.  Some  sat  huddled  beneath  the  rail,  others  stared 
out  into  the  mist.  The  main  hatchways  were  crowded 
with  them,  the  bridge  deck  held  a  score ;  cabins,  fore- 
castle, all  were  tenanted  by  these  strange  folk,  who  spoke 
t  he  tongues  of  Southern  Europe  and  were  bereft.  Blankets , 


360  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

sail-cloth,  a  jumbled  assortment  of  odd  garments,  clothed 
them.  They  looked  up,  dull  and  in  fear,  each  time  a  gong 
clanged  or  the  foghorn  uttered  a  blast.  A  subdued 
moan  moved  through  the  dense  grey  air  as  the  ship 
nosed  about  searching.  A  cry  sometimes  of  despair, 
sometimes  of  fear,  of  hope,  of  misery,  pierced  the  mono- 
tone they  made.  It  was  cold.  It  was  impossible  to 
see  what  came  and  went,  and  the  hand  of  Death  lay 
heavily  on  all. 

Again  O'Hagan  stood  alone  on  the  bridge.  Lucy  had 
gone  back  to  her  task  among  the  saved.  She  moved  from 
group  to  group,  talking  haltingly  in  French  with  those 
who  were  able  to  respond.  Treegan,  Evans,  the  engineers, 
and  men  who  could  be  spared  from  duty,  went  about 
rendering  aid.  People  who  had  been  dried  in  the  stoke- 
hold and  galley  were  brought  on  deck  and  others  taken  to 
the  fires. 

So  it  went  on  for  hours,  the  Griselda  slowly  burrowing 
in  the  wall  of  fog,  the  hum  of  anguish,  terror,  despair 
always  accompanying  her  as  she  continued  her  search  ; 
the  clouds  of  wet  air  hiding  her,  clogging  her  movements, 
making  aid  hazardous. 

So  the  day  passed  ;  night  fell  upon  them — morning. 
Only  the  fog  remained. 

While  O'Hagan  was  still  three  days  from  port,  in  clear 
weather,  the  Carmania  came  smoking  up  the  lane  from 
Liverpool,  and,  answering  the  Griselda's  signals,  slowed 
down  and  sent  boats  to  relieve  her  of  a  portion  of  her 
burden. 

This  put  heart  into  the  wrecked  people ;  it  made  it 
possible  to  compete  with  the  pressure  which  had  existed, 
and  O'Hagan  for  the  first  time  began  to  find  himself. 
You  cannot  do  much  for  Latins  and  Slavs  if  you  have  the 
linguistic  attainments  of  the  average  Anglo-Saxon.  It 
is  especially  difficult  to  deal  with  them  when  with  very 
good  reason  they  have  decided  that  you,  in  point  of  fact, 
are  the  cause  of  their  distress.  That  was  the  attitude  of 
the  majority  of  those  saved,  and  it  was  impossible  to 
combat  it. 

For  O'Hagan,  at  the  end  of  his  tether  financially,  his 
home  in  the  hands  of  those  who  conduct  auctions,  rates 
and  taxes  lying  in  store  against  him,  the  situation  was 
pitiable,  It  was  salvage  this  man  had  prayed  for,  the 


THE  STAR?  361 

opportunity  of  making  money  to  relieve  the  strain  which 
certainly  tended  to  hamper  him,  and  he  found  himself 
impaled  instead  by  the  horns  of  fame.  Salvage  would 
have  found  him  both  fame  and  dollars.  It  was  a  thing 
for  which  his  owners,  if  it  was  fat  and  snug  and  not  too 
costly  in  the  winning,  would  give  him  praise.  The  Black 
List  would  see  his  name  expunged — but  he  had  earned 
public  praise  instead.  A  dubious  inheritance,  as  sailors 
know.  He  might  perhaps,  as  things  were,  win  a  star. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  become  famous  while  still 
he  was  forty-eight  hours  from  New  York.  Stories  of  his 
gallantry,  so  they  phrased  it,  and  that  of  young  Evans, 
given  with  wonderful  fidelity  by  the  Carmanias  operator, 
had  already  appeared  when  the  giant  Cunarder  herself 
arrived.  From  that  moment  until  the  entry  of  worn 
Griselda,  sketches  as  well  as  words  filled  columns  of  the 
press  in  two  continents. 

Now  the  Griselda  got  herself  into  New  York  very  early, 
and  as  she  thought  unobserved,  on  the  seventeenth  of 
September,  to  face  a  chorus  which  was  in  full  swing.  It 
brought  a  twinkle  to  O'Hagan's  eyes  and  tears  to  Lucy's. 
With  the  characteristic  emphasis  of  the  greatest  city  in 
the  New  World,  authorities  had  combined  to  give  the 
Griseldians  what  they  called  "  the  time  of  their  lives." 

O'Hagan,  in  a  general  way,  was  not  averse  to  the  thing 
known  as  recognition  ;  but  the  sublime  and  unexpected 
manoeuvres  of  New  York's  pressmen  amazed  him  as 
greatly  as  did  their  narrative.  It  is  vivifying  to  be 
snap-shotted  and  heroised  in  England ;  it  is  quite 
another  business  in  America. 

A  new  feature  arose,  too,  very  early  in  the  campaign 
which  ensued.  The  Griselda,  it  was  found,  carried  no 
means  of  speech  but  her  flags,  which  were  useless  in  a  fog, 
and  a  whistle  which  was  a  "  futile  and  archaic  mode  of 
making  simple  speech  complex."  New  York  decided, 
on  the  second  day,  while  Griselda  shivered  in  dock,  that 
all  ships  should  carry  wireless  installations,  and  became 
very  busy  ordering  presidents  and  boards  to  make  it 
compulsory. 

They  were  busy,  too,  dissecting  the  news  which  had 
come  by  wireless  and  comparing  it  with  the  red-hot 
comments  of  people  in  a  glow  of  language.  Interviews 
and  statements  jostled  each  other  out  of  all  countenance. 
The  Deed  of  yesterday  became  a  Misdeed  of  to-day,  the 


362  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

marvellous  prescience  of  O'Hagan  something  akin  to 
negligence.  There  came  in  sequence  the  tributes  and  the 
diatribes,  the  criticism  and  the  brushwork  of  many 
individuals  suddenly  become  famous ;  suddenly  blossoming 
as  Judges  before  the  most  arbitrary  Arbiter  of  modern 
days — Public  Opinion. 

The  flair  commenced  when  the  papers  got  in  touch  with 
the  Car-mania's  operator  ;  but  it  became  riotous  when  an 
officer  of  the  Salonos  announced  that  his  ship  had  sent 
out  distress  calls  which  remained  unanswered.  O'Hagan, 
too,  when  he  was  questioned,  admitted  at  once  that 
although  he  had  heard  the  foghorns  of  two  vessels,  he 
had  no  knowledge  until  he  came  actually  among  those 
who  floated  and  swam,  and  heard  the  roar  of  steam  and 
air,  that  anything  serious  had  happened. 

Then  someone  in  authority  spoke,  and  the  Griseldians 
were  held  forth  as  an  example  for  the  sailors  of  all  nations 
and  of  all  time.  America  searched,  in  her  newspapers, 
for  precedent  in  this  matter.  It  asked  that  a  Star 
should  be  found  which  was  unique  and  applicable  to  this 
deed  ;  but  none  appeared.  It  became  a  question  whether 
the  States  had  power  to  grant  decorations  to  individuals 
not  of  its  race.  It  was  discovered  that  in  any  case  the 
acts  had  not  been  performed  in  the  territorial  waters  of 
U.S.A.  Newfoundland  was  the  defendant  Power,  but 
Newfoundland,  even  if  it  admitted  territorial  jurisdiction, 
had  no  star. 

Germany,  it  was  said,  found  it  wise  to  recognise 
heroism  on  the  high  seas.  European  nations  generally, 
it  was  pointed  out,  had,  locked  up  in  their  care,  Orders 
and  Ribbons  which  may  be  won  by  sailors  ;  but  the 
Power  which  should  speak,  which  governed  the  speech- 
less Griselda,  gave  no  sign.  It  became  recognised  at 
length  that  no  doubt  England  would  speak  some  day.  It 
was  suggested  that  an  Order  in  Council  would  be  prepared 
and  handed  to  Captain  O'Hagan  when  he  returned. 
Journalists  said  very  plainly  that  England  was  governed 
by  Orders  in  Council.  They  were  not  quite  sure  what 
these  things  were,  but  they  instanced  the  fact  that  the 
Plimsoll  Law  which  once  ruled  English  shipping  had  been 
snuffed  out  by  an  Order  in  Council.  They  looked  hope- 
fully for  the  day  when  O'Hagan's  countrymen  should 
recognise  his  misdeeds.  They  were  jovial  cynics. 

Then,  in  the  midst  of  much  talk,  came  a  communication 


THE  STAR?  303 

from  the  Greek  Government,  which  stated  that  the  King 
was  desirous  of  recognising  the  gallantry  of  those  English- 
men who  had  come  to  the  rescue  of  his  subjects.  The 
matter  was  made  known  in  the  correct  way,  with  a  flourish 
of  trumpets,  and  O'Hagan  sat  down  to  await  the  arrival 
of  very  high  honour,  one  of  the  highest  at  the  bestowal  of 
the  Greek  King,  a  lesser  honour  for  young  Evans,  and  a 
purse  of  gold  for  the  rank  and  file  of  the  Griseldians.  The 
Greek  Minister  spoke  feelingly  and  with  grave  appreciation 
of  the  signal  duty  which  had  fallen  to  him — and  New 
York  hummed  content.  Dinners  were  eaten,  speeches 
made  to  which  O'Hagan  and  Treegan  and  Evans  replied, 
and  the  world  rolled  rosily  for  the  Griseldians. 

Then,  at  a  final  and  lavish  display  of  kindliness  on  the 
part  of  New  York  underwriters,  while  at  dinner  a  message 
was  handed  to  O'Hagan  which  made  him  blink.  He 
visualised  recognition  from  England  at  last.  But  it 
came  from  his  owners  and  said — 

"  Well  done  Griselda.    We  are  proud  of  you.    SHARUMS." 
No  star  on  the  horizon  here. 

Nothing  from  the  country  which  should  have  been  the 
first  to  speak.  "  We  are  proud  of  you — SITARUMS."  The 
Department  which  rules  shipping,  silent.  Perhaps  it  had 
not  heard.  The  din  at  Whitehall  no  doubt  was,  and  is, 
prodigious.  Cotton  wool  is  found  necessary  to  stifle  it. 

Having  failed  to  find  dollars  on  the  high  seas,  O'Hagan 
had,  at  all  events,  found  kudos  and  the  promise  of  a  Star 
at  the  hands  of  Greece. 

O'Hagan  put  the  cable  in  his  pocket  and  did  what  he 
could  to  enjoy  his  dinner  ;  but  to  Lucy,  when  he  reached 
her  rooms  up  town  that  night,  he  confided  the  opinion 
that  Sharum  had  joined  the  majority— which  was  only 
another  way  of  saying  that  Sharum  was  mad.  But  Lucy 
knew  that  Denis  was  proud.  She  caught  occasional 
lapses  into  self-consciousness.  She  knew  that  he  thrilled 
when  speakers  related  how  he  had  dived  "  in  full  uniform  " 
from  the  bridge  and  picked  up  a  poor  devil  of  a  Pole,  who 
kept  shouting  "  Let  go  !  "  — "  Let  go  !  "  and  yet  knew  no 
English.  She  pictured  to  herself  dear  Den's  full  uniform, 
and  the  struggle  it  had  been  to  find  even  one  new  suit  for 
that  voyage  ;  and  she  pictured  Den's  face  as  he  was 
hauled  into  the  boat  which  came  to  his  assistance,  and 
heard  his  phrase  as  he  climbed  the  rail  to  greet  her  with— 
"  Got  it  this  time,  Brown,"  because  there  were  those 


364  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

present  before  whom  it  would  not  have  been  wise  to 
expand. 

For  some  time  the  people  saved  in  this  fashion  con- 
tinued in  the  belief  that  O'Hagan  and  the  Griselda  were 
the  delinquents.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  no  damage 
appeared,  until  a  smashed  grain-carrier  crawled  into 
Halifax  nursing  hurts  which  could  not  have  been  self- 
inflicted,  the  notion  survived.  Nor  was  it  easy,  even  then, 
to  explain  to  a  congeries  suffering  as  it  had,  that  the 
colliding  vessel  had  backed  away,  and  had  not  been  able 
to  return  because  of  the  fog.  But  those  who  knew 
recognised  the  difficulty. 

And  now  they  heroised  O'Hagan,  Lucy  decided  he  seemed 
to  shrink.  He  objected  to  adulation,  and  said  so.  He 
repeated  that  if  he  had  known  what  lay  before  him,  he 
would  have  been  too  scared  to  act.  Two  hundred  and 
sixty  had  perished  after  all.  The  sea  bubbled  faces. 
That  was  terrible.  It  pointed  to  imperfect  methods.  He 
told  people  that  sailors  were  trained  acrobats  and  accus- 
tomed to  lightning  rescues  of  the  drowning.  He  took 
Lucy's  hand  and  said,  "  This  is  the  one  thing  for  wrhich 
we  are  untrained ;  "  then,  after  a  small  silence — "  If  only 
this  had  happened  before  the  kiddie  went,"  and  sat  down 
hopeless.  It  was  plain  that  he  was  tired  and  wanted 
rest.  He  admitted,  when  questioned,  that  wireless 
telegraphy  would  be  useful  in  "  cargo-wallahs,"  but 
asked  pathetically  who  would  be  expected  to  work  it. 

He  said  at  the  last  dinner  he  was  called  to  endure — 
"  Make  it  compulsory  that  all  ships  shall  be  fitted  with  a 
Morse  signalling  lamp  at  the  masthead,  and  you  will 
enable  ships  to  tell  each  other  what  they  are  going  to  do — • 
anyhow,  at  night.  For  day  work  give  me  a  semaphore. 
Half  the  collisions  occur  because  there  is  no  means  of 
saying  at  once  what  a  ship  is  going  to  do.  The  whistle 
should  be  subsidiary. 

"  There  were  minutes,"  he  went  on,  "  as  I  crept  up  to 
the  sinking  Salonos,  when  I  could  have  flashed  signals  and 
she  could  have  flashed  replies  to  me.  We  might  have  done 
more  so.  You  want  something  quicker  than  wireless  in 
an  emergency — you  see  what  I  mean  ?  Something  that 
can  be  read  in  a  moment  by  the  officer  of  the  watch. 
The  Navy  relies  on  flashlights  and  semaphore — why 
should  not  merchant  ships  use  the  same  ?  .  .  ." 


THE   STAR?  805 

Then  someone  pointed  out  that  in  a  fog  neither  were  of 
any  service,  and  O'Hagan  took  up  the  challenge  at  once— 

"  Nothing  is  of  much  service  when  you  cannot  see. 
Even  a  wireless  message  is  ineffectual  in  a  fog.  You  may 
receive  it — but  what  can  you  do  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer  to  this,  and  O'Hagan  leaned  for- 
ward to  say — "  Fog  masters  us.  It  ties  us  hand  and  foot. 
We  cannot  move  very  fast  in  it.  We  may  not  be  able  to 
move  at  all.  Then  we  are  at  the  mercy  of  those  who  care 
to  take  risks.  .  .  .  No,  you  cannot  rely  on  sound  signals- 
submarine  electricity  may  help  here,  but  not  whistles. 
And,"  he  lashed  out,  "  if  ships  were  built  of  tougher  stuff 
than  the  modern  steel,  and  with  more  appreciation  of 
what  they  must  endure,  they  would  not  sink  before  people 
had  time  to  rub  the  sleep  out  of  their  eyes  or  get  into  their 
life-belts." 

After  that  dinner  O'Hagan  found  his  way  up  town  to 
the  house  which  sheltered  Lucy.  It  was  far  from  ships 
and  the  port  of  New  York.  It  knew  very  little  of  sailors, 
and  appeared  content  in  its  ignorance.  It  catered  for 
people  of  small  means  who  yet  were  travellers.  It  was 
plain,  therefore,  that  Denis  and  Lucy  had  been  at  some 
pains  to  get  out  of  the  rut.  They  were  Mr.  &  Mrs.  O'Hagan, 
Den's  captaincy  sunk. 

It  seemed  necessary,  too,  that  when  Lucy  came  ashore 
and  it  was  evident  she  would  be  called  upon  to  meet  other 
women,  that  at  her  rooms  she  should  be  garbed  as  a  woman. 
Men,  she  pointed  out,  smiling  at  her  husband,  may  be 
puzzled  by  a  woman  masquerading  as  a  man,  but  women 
would  have  her  pinned  out  in  an  hour. 

The  difficulty  of  making  a  change  failed  to  embarrass 
Lucy.  Indeed,  she  seemed  to  have  come  equipped  for  it. 
On  the  second  night  of  the  Griseldas  stay  in  dock,  while 
they  were  still  in  a  whirl  of  preparation  for  the  feteing  so 
spontaneously  arranged  for  them,  she  discarded  the  thick 
man's  stockings  she  had  worn  with  her  Norfolk  suit  all 
day  and  drew  on  a  pair  of  Lisle  thread.  She  put  on  boots 
in  which  no  man  could  walk.  She  donned  an  ulster  which 
might  belong  to  a  person  of  either  sex  and,  wearing  a  hat 
which  only  required  the  addition  of  a  veil  to  make  it 
womanly,  stepped  down  the  gangway  to  meet  her  husband, 
who  waited  at  its  foot. 

Treegan,  who  saw  her  following  the  trunk  which  had 


366  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

puzzled  him  when  still  they  were  in  the  London  docks, 
had  no  suspicion  that  Mr.  Brown  was  other  than  he 
appeared.  He  had,  indeed,  no  very  high  opinion  of  that 
young  man's  capacities — "  Ae  wee  bit  saft,"  rather 
expressed  the  mate's  view  at  the  beginning,  and  the  sug- 
gestion presently  made  by  young  Evans,  that  Mr.  Brown 
was  Mrs.  O'Hagan  masquerading  as  a  man  in  order  to  be 
near  her  husband,  produced  mockery. 

"  Man  !  ye  must  be  wowf,"  came  disdainfully  to  fluster 
the  second  mate  and  to  put  him  on  his  mettle. 

Treegan  had  discussed  certain  attitudes  with  young 
Evans,  the  second  mate,  and  found  them  symptomatic 
"  o'  pairsons  on  the  road  ta  the  mad-hoose  " — anyone,  it 
appeared,  who  chose  to  voyage  in  a  Tramp  while  there 
existed  a  single  Cunarder,  or  a  mile  of  beach  to  camp  on, 
was  more  than  "  ae  wee  bit  saft,  he  was  looney:"  And  as 
for  the  muffler  and  cap  the  man  wore — "  Weel,  now,  did 
ye  no  hear  Captain  O'Hagan  explicate  that  ?  "  Then, 
after  Evans  had  retired  in  silence  to  consider  this,  Treegan 
came  near  the  binnacle,  looked  into  it  and  said — "  Star- 
board to  your  course !  Starboard — or  I  shall  consider  you 
one  o'  they  new-fangled  sailor-men  wha  get  their  trainin' 
in  steam."  A  hit  this  at  Evans  and  all  those  who  have 
been  compelled  by  modern  conditions  to  voyage  in  steamers 
or  remain  on  shore. 

Ridicule  rarely  kills.  It  more  often  acts  as  an  incentive. 
Suspicion  is  followed  up  until  either  proof  or  disproof  is  the 
result.  And  so  here. 

When  Evans  left  the  bridge  on  that  occasion  he  came 
to  his  room  and  sat  glumly  considering  the  mate's  exas- 
perating tongue.  He  speculated,  too,  on  the  probable 
future  of  a  man  so  gifted  with  blind  reason.  And  while 
he  sat  there  dangling  straws  he  could  not  chew  the 
steward  came  past.  He  stopped  to  make  a  suggestion 
concerning  Mr.  Brown.  The  matter  naturally  revolved 
in  the  ambit  provided  by  the  word  lunacy  on  the  one 
hand,  and  love  on  the  other. 

The  second  mate  had  his  theories,  so  too  had  the 
steward.  The  thing  had  been  broached  before  Treegan 
discovered  so  violent  an  objection  to  discussion,  and  on 
that  occasion  Treegan  was  pushed  out,  ostracised  in  name 
and  inference  by  the  two  plotters  who  persisted  in  see- 
ing ambiguity,  salient  or  dormant,  in  the  phrases  of 
Mr.  Brown  and  Captain  O'Hagan. 


THE   STAR?  367 

On  the  night  following  that  on  which  Lucy  had  gone 
ashore,  just  as  Evans  was  ready  to  turn  in,  the  steward 
tapped  lightly  on  his  door  and  entered.  He  carried  a 
bread-basket  under  his  arm,  and  in  it  a  paper  parcel.  It 
contained  nothing  edible — just  a  pair  of  shoes,  in  point 
of  fact,  of  the  kind  worn  by  women  who  know  the  value 
of  dainty  foot-gear. 

The  steward  produced  them  with  an  eye  to  effect.  He 
held  them  forth  at  length,  the  paper  returned  to  the 
basket. 

"  What  d'ye  fink  of  that,  sir  ?  "  he  asked,  all  the 
conspirator  in  him  to  the  front. 

Evans  knit  his  brows  regarding  this  trifle.  "  Hum  !  " 
he  said  without  sparkle,  "  rather  decent.  Where  did 
you  buy  them  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  buy  'em,  sir — I  found  'em,"  said  the  steward. 

And  still  young  Evans  chose  to  be  blind. 

"  Lucky  beggar,"  he  commented.     "  Where  ?  " 

"  In  the  old  man's  room,  sir,  underneaf  'is  bed,"  said 
the  steward. 

Evans  puffed  at  his  pipe,  his  forehead  drawn  into 
wrinkles,  refusing  inference,  refusing,  suddenly  and  for 
no  apparent  reason,  to  consider  it,  speak  of  it,  know  any- 
thing about  what  had  led  up  to  it.  "  Plotting  against 
the  old  man"  was  the  first  cause  in  this  new  attitude; 
a  meeting  with  Peter  Witterspoon  the  motive  which  had 
brought  first  causes  into  prominence.  "  Plotting  against 
the  old  man.  A  jolly  good  sort  too  .  .  .  plotting  with  a 
flunkey  !  " 

He  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  and  said  with  it — "  No  ;  I'm 
damned  if  I  do."  Then  aloud,  very  much  in  Treegan's 
manner,  "  Ou,  aye !  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Captain 
O'Hagan  asked  me  to  see  to  them  when  he  went  ashore, 
but  I  forgot  it.  They  got  in  his  bag  by  mistake.  Roll 
them  together  and  put  them  on  my  settee.  I'll  send 
them  in  the  morning." 

"  Send  ?  "  the  steward  ventured,  his  eyes  narrowed, 
"  to  Mr.  Brown,  sir  ?  " 

"  To  Mrs.  O'Hagan,  Cap'n  O'Hagan's  wife.  She  came 
out  in  the  Carmania  and  is  staying  across  there  at 
Jersey  City,"  Evans  snapped  out,  romancing  without 
shame.  "  Put  them  down — paper  and  all.  It  will  do  to 
wrap  them  in  ...  and  clear  out.  I'm  going  to  sleep." 

The  steward  obeyed  because  he  had  no  option.     He 


368  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

obeyed  as  an  understrapper  does,  even  in  moments  of 
vigorous  protest,  when  he  is  on  board  ship  ;  because  no 
protest  is  possible.  And  when  he  had  sacrificed  the 
whole  tangible  result  of  his  long  espionage,  he  took  up 
his  basket  and  left  the  room.  He  looked  sad.  He 
acknowledged  that  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  taking 
Peter  Witterspoon  to  the  second  mate's  room.  He  put 
these  ideas  into  phrases  which  should  have  scarified  his 
officer — yet  nothing  came  of  it. 

When  Evans  was  alone  he  rose  from  his  pillow,  switched 
on  the  light  and  climbed  to  the  settee.  He  took  up  the 
shoes  and  examined  them,  turned  them  over  to  look  at 
the  soles  ;  nodded,  rolled  them  up  and  placed  them  in  a 
drawer,  which  he  locked. 

"  Hers  ?  "  he  asked  softly  of  the  farther  bulkhead. 
"  Of  course  they  are  hers." 

Then  with  apparent  disregard  of  the  factor  known  as 
pay,  which  in  his  case  at  all  events  was  microscopic,  he 
said — "  If  I  thought  I  could  get  a  wife  like  her  I'd  marry 
to-morrow  ;  damned  if  I  wouldn't." 

He  kicked  out,  arranging  his  blankets  with  his  feet, 
punched  an  unoffending  pillow,  and  straightway  sought 
sleep. 

For  the  first  night  since  the  Griseldas  entry  into  New 
York,  the  inactivity  of  the  winches  made  this  possible. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   SILENCE   OF   ENGLAND 

PETER  WITTERSPOON  was  in  New  York. 

Peter  Witterspoon  sighing,  his  eyes  dim,  when  all  the 
world  would  have  sworn  the  world  was  at  his  feet.  "  A 
man,  sir,"  so  goes  the  phrase,  "  who  only  has  to  hold  up 
his  finger  if  he  wants  a  thing."  "  A  man,  whether  you 
believe  it  or  not,  able  to  shake  Wall  Street  or  Royal 
Exchange  and  look  round  growling  for  some  other  thing 
to  shake."  That  man  sigh  for  a  woman,  cross  the  Pond 
on  a  journey  which  can  bring  him  no  nearer  to  her  ;  bring 
him  no  smiles,  no  love — the  thing  plainly  for  which  he 
starved  ? 

In  any  case  Peter  Witterspoon  was  in  New  York. 

He  crossed  in  the  Hamburg-Amerika  flyer  from 
Southampton  because  the  more  staid  Carniania  was 
unable  to  minister  to  his  desire  for  speed.  And  he  missed 
the  chance  of  a  lifetime  when  the  Cunarder  came  swiftly 
in  the  track  of  over-crowded  Griselda  and  took  from  her 
those  half-clad  Italians,  Greeks  and  Slavs  who  dared  a  new 
transhipment.  He  crossed  after  a  week  spent  in  seeking 
at  Riverton  and  elsewhere,  with  the  aid  of  Mrs.  Faulkner, 
Lucy's  hiding-place ;  then  he  came  back  to  Bearsted 
Road  to  interview  the  husband  of  the  lady  who  provided 
beefsteak  and  kidney  pies  for  her  "  guests  "  on  Empire 
Day. 

Mr.  Shandon  was  a  person  who  seldom  appeared.  He 
lived  in  the  shades,  and  when  Peter  Witterspoon  dis- 
covered him  he  admitted  that  London  could  get  on  very 
well  without  him.  But  he  was  a  longshoreman,  a  person 
versed  in  many  strange  practices  still  found  possible  near 
the  creeks  and  gullies  of  the  Isle  of  Dogs. 

By  the  transfer  of  certain  coins  bearing  his  Majesty's 
effigy  in  golden  relief,  Peter  Witterspoon  discovered  that 
Lucy  had  packed  a  trunk,  labelled  it  "Mr.  T.  Brown," 
and  sent  it  by  Carter  Paterson,  vid  Mr.  Shandon,  to  the 
Griselda.  Mr.  Shandon  proved  delivery  of  the  trunk; 

B.F.  B  B 


370  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

he  proved  that  later — "  after  the  pubs  was  closed  I  took 
an'  showed  Mr.  T.  Brown  'ow  to  get  froo  into  the  docks. 

"  I  'ailed  a  cab,"  said  Mr.  Shandon,  "  an'  come  down 
to  the  edge  o'  the  wharf,  take  yer  oaf,  an'  just  took  T. 
Brown  be  the  arm  an'  took  'im  aboord.  Then  ee  give  me 
ten  bob  an'  I  quit.  ?Oo  was  ee  ?  "  Mr.  Shandon  became 
confidential ;  he  winked.  "  Oo  are  you  lookin'  for,  any- 
w'y  ?  Mrs.  O'Agan  ?  Well,  T.  Brown's  'er  .  .  .  Rummy, 
ain't  it  ?  Take  yer  oaf  ! 

"  Ho  yus  !  I  know  you,  sir  ...  no  need  fer  intala- 
duction  'ere.  I  see  you  time  an'  agen  wiv  'er  .  .  .  see 
yer  motors  .  .  .  see  you  w'en  you  fought  no  one's  in  the 
bloomin'  street  .  .  .  see  yer  w'en  you  tike  'em  all  aw'y 
to  Hepping  ;  but  you  never  see  me.  Not  it.  That's  my 
biz — to  keep  out  o'  sight,  an'  it's  a  job  I  can  do.  .  .  . 
Know  yer  ?  Lord  lumme  !  if  I  didn't  know  yer  d'ye 
fink  I'd  let  on  wot  'appened  to  'er  as  st'yed  'ere  wiv  my 
missis  an'  los'  'er  kid  ? 

"  Take  yer  oaf  !  "  said  Mr.  Shandon  with  energy  ;  but 
not  in  the  way  of  asseveration  it  appeared  by  the  context. 
"  But  Lord  !  hif  my  wife,  wot's  fair  balmy  on  that  kid 
wot  they  los',  knew  as  I  went  gallifantin'  along  the  docks 
wiv  'er  dressed  like  a  man  .  .  .  well,  there,  it  wouldn't 
be  'ome  no  longer." 

Mr.  Shandon  drew  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  lips, 
transferred  the  price  of  many  dead-enders  to  the  flap  of 
a  singularly  open  pocket,  touched  his  forelock  and  repeated 
again — "  Take  yer  oaf !  " — this  time  in  answer  to  a  sug- 
gestion from  Peter  Witterspoon. 

Sharum,  Cockspur  Street,  and  a  state  room  in  the 
Hanging  -  gardens  -  Ritz  -  Delmonico  mailship  Asterias 
brought  Peter  Witterspoon  without  undue  fatigue  to 
New  York. 

He  came  down  to  the  Griselda  on  Sunday  when  young 
Evans  was  the  officer  in  charge  and  complimented  him 
on  his  gallantry.  He  explained  that  he  had  an  interest 
in  Sharums,  Limited,  and  slowly  brought  the  conversation 
to  track  Mr.  Brown.  Evans,  with  the  mystery  of  that 
strange  person  burning  him,  told  his  visitor  what  he  knew, 
described  Mr.  Brown,  said  where  he  was  to  be  found,  and 
afterwards  spoke  harshly  of  his  indiscretion  to  Treegan. 
But  that  philosopher  reminded  him  it  was  "  nae  use 
bleatin'  over  wet  sea-boots,  the  thing  tae  do  was  ta  dry 
them  oot." 


THE  SILENCE  OF  ENGLAND  371 

But  Evans  was  unable  to  dry  them,  "  oot  or  in." 
Lucy  O'Hagan  took  grave  risks  when  she  decided  to 
evade  her  aunt's  protege  and  face  the  sea  with  her  hus- 
band. Witterspoon  waved  a  wand  and  arrived  curled, 
ready  to  prosecute  a  siege  ;  ready,  at  all  events,  to  decide 
whether  a  siege  were  possible,  ready  to  take  Lucy  in  his 
arms  and  give  her  the  purse  of  a  Rascallion — if  she  would 
take  it. 

But  Lucy  O'Hagan,  daughter  of  a  man  who  had  fallen 
in  defence  of  his  country's  honour,  wife  of  one  on  his  way 
to  receive  the  chronometer-balanced  stop-watch  which 
is  England's  notion  of  a  Mercantile  Marine  V.C.,  was  not 
alive  to  the  advantages  offered  by  the  epicure  son  of  a 
man  strong  enough  to  build  up  a  fortune  by  the  manu- 
facture of  pills,  and  weak  enough  to  leave  it  in  that  son's 
hands. 

It  came  out  at  their  first  encounter  up  there  at  her 
rooms,  whither  he  had  pursued  her,  waited  for  her,  caught 
her. 

She  stood  flushed,  astonished  and  very  beautiful  in 
his  eyes,  angry  at  the  manner  of  his  insistence. 

"  Why  are  you  here  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Who  told  you 
where  to  find  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  here,  dear  lady,  because  it  would  be  death  to 
stay  away,"  he  pronounced  evenly. 

"  It  might  be  death  to  stay,"  she  panted,  her  face 
suddenly  aflame  at  his  tone. 

"  I  would  welcome  it,"  he  bowed,  "  if  by  dying  I  could 
do  you  a  service." 

"I — we  have  no  desire  for  your  services.  We  are 
happy  in  fighting  for  ourselves,  '  she  told  him,  but  he 
came  nearer  and  said  quickly— 

"  You  may  not  be  able  to  fight  for  yourselves.  Circum- 
stances may  be  too  strong  for  you.  You  are  a  woman. 
You  are  not  fitted  for  this  life.  Why  did  you  not  remain 
in  London  as  I  urged  ?  I  had  very  grave  reasons  for 
giving  you  that  advice.  If  I  could  have  foreseen  it,  your 
husband  would  not  have  been  here  either.  It — it  is  a 
very  difficult  question.  I  don't  care  about  discussing  it, 
even  with  you.  It  may  be  quite  untrue.  I  am  unable 
to  say  .  .  .  but  I  did  expect  you  would  rely  to  some 
extent  on  my  judgment.  Instead  of  that  you  come  here 
dressed  as  a  man,  by  Jove^  and — oh  !  I  say,  isn't  that 
rather  overdoing  the  part  ?  " 

B.B  2 


372  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  follow  you,"  she  said  in  tones 
which  conveyed  to  his  intelligence  just  how  little  she 
missed. 

"  Never  mind.  The  point  is  that  I  want  you  to  give 
up  this  trip.  Your  aunt  is  seriously  concerned  about  it, 
and  I  want  you  to  promise  you  will  not  go  back  in  the 
Griselda.  I  would  get  you  to  persuade  your  husband 
to  come  out  of  her  too,  if  I  thought  there  was  the  smallest 
chance  of  his  doing  so.  ...  Oh  !  I  bow  down  before 
your  husband — believe  me,  I  have  no  intention  or  desire 
to  belittle  him.  He  has  done  a  fine  work  finely  and  the 
Royal  Humane  Society  should  recognise  what  he  has 
done  .  .  .  but,  look  here,  Mrs.  O'Hagan,  it  is  no  use 
beating  about  the  bush,  I  do  not  want  you  to  sail  on  the 
Griselda  again.  It  gives  me  the  jumps  to  consider  it. 
Wait  till  O'Hagan  has  a  decent  ship  ...  I  will  work  all 
I  know  for  him — 'pon  honour  I  will — although  I  know  it 
will  not  bring  you  nearer  to  me.  I  would  give  him 
command  of  my  yacht  if  I  thought  he  would  take  it,  and 
you  could  sail  in  her  till  the  world  turns  blue  ;  but,  for 
God's  sake,  don't  go  round  in  these  miserable  Tramps 
even  to  be  near  your  husband.  It  isn't  fair  .  .  .  'pon 
honour  it  isn't  .  .  .  yes  ?  " 

He  held  his  breath  because  with  a  sudden  wave  of 
impatience  she  interpolated  his  name.  "  Yes,  I  beg  your 
pardon  ?  " 

Lucy  faced  him,  her  cheeks  aflame,  certain  that  she 
must  come  to  the  bottom  of  this  matter.  "  Why  do  you 
pester  me  ?  "  she  cried  out.  "  Wliy — why  ?  " 

"  Do  I  pester  you  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Isn't  it  plain  ?  "  she  commented.  "  You  choose  a 
moment  when  you  know  my  husband  is  away  ;  you  force 
your  society  upon  me — here  in  New  York  where  I  came 
to  escape  you.  You  put  me  in  difficulty,  try  to  spoil 
my  life,  make  me  act  meanly  .  .  .  why  do  you  do  it — 
why,  why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  love  you,"  said  Peter  Witterspoon  instantly, 
"  and  nothing  else  counts." 

"  Love  !  "  she  mocked,  angry  instantly  at  this  madness  ; 
but  he  interrupted,  beat  her  down — 

*'  You  made  me  love  you.  I  had  no  option  in  the 
matter.  You  were  kind  to  me  in  India  ...  I  danced 
with  you  at  Simla.  You  remember  ?  " 

"  In  India  you  were  a  gentleman,"  she  said,  still  in 


THE  SILENCE  OF  ENGLAND  373 

tones  of  mocking  comment,  wondering  if  he  would  find 
the  inference. 

'  You  asked  me  why  I  follow  you,"  he  pleaded,  "  and 
when  I  tell  you,  you  twit  me  with  lack  of  breeding.  I  am 
what  I  am.  I  love  you  because  of  yourself,  if  you  like 
that  better.  I  wish  to  save  you,  if  you  will  permit  me  to 
force  that  view.  I  wish  to  help  you  .  .  .  and,  oh,  my  God  ! 
can't  you  see  that  I  will  wait  for  you,  pray  for  you,  see 
you  whenever  my  money  will  aid  me  ;  with  your  consent 
or  without  it,  now  or  at  any  time  in  the  future,  while  I 
live  ?  "  The  passion  of  these  words  consumed  him.  and 
for  a  moment  he  was  quiet. 

Lucy  watched  him  with  growing  fear. 
"  What  is  convention  to  you  or  me  ?  "  he  questioned 
again,  his  tongue  loose  amidst  phrases  and  thoughts  which 
had  pursued  him  even  as  he  had  pursued  Lucy.  "  What 
are  shibboleths  to  any  educated  man  or  woman — love 
comes  first,  does  it  not  ?  Is  it  not  the  mastering  flame  ? 
Do  you  pretend  that  the  fulminations  of  bigots,  aimed 
solely  at  keeping  their  little  perch  in  situ,  trouble  you 
.  .  .  are  you  afraid  ?  " 

She  laughed  because  she  was  afraid,  because  Peter 
Witterspoon  in  this  guise  was  incomprehensible,  but 
mainly  because  she  was  afraid,  as  any  young  thing  is,  of 
passions  it  does  not  understand. 

She  knew  that  Peter  Witterspoon  was  the  controlling 
force  in  that  business  which  had  first  wrecked  her  husband 
and  now  given  him  the  opportunity  for  which  he  had 
prayed  and  striven.  She  knew  that  Sharum  would  never 
have  done  what  he  had  without  compulsion,  and  there  was 
gratitude  in  this  young  girl's  he.  rt  in  spite  of  the 
laugh. 

"  Aren't  we  here  to  live  our  lives  and  gather  as  many 
roses  on  the  way  as  possible  ?  "  he  pressed  upon  her. 
"  For  a  man  in  love — love  is,"  he  enunciated.  "  He  is 
the  slave  of  a  passion  all  too  rare  among  men.  A  man  who 
will  not  follow  where  love  beckons  is  unworthy  the  name  of 
man." 

He  moved  up  and  down  the  room  before  her,  pointing 
the  way  he  had  come. 

"  I  admit  my  insignificance,  my  dilettante  attitude  ; 
but  I  do  not  admit  your  right  to  scorn  me  because  of  it. 
Your  husband  is  great  and  noble  in  your  eyes  ;  if  I  were 
in  his  shoes  I  should  not  be  satisfied  with  that."  He 


874  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

shrugged  over  this,  scorn  now  in  his  tone,  but  instantly 
suppressed.  "  I  do  not  ask  you  to  leave  him.  I  merely 
beg  for  your  very  kind  consideration  at  such  moments  as 
you  can  spare  from  him.  I  ask  to  be  allowed  to  come 
sometimes  to  see  you.  To  meet  your  husband  and  your 
friends.  I  ask  to  be  one  of  your  party.  .  .  .  For  the  rest, 
I  can  wait,  although,  God  knows,  that  is  bitterness  in 
being.  .  .  ." 

He  halted  some  paces  distant,  obviously  distressed, 
and  Lucy  said,  with  less  sting  than  before — 

"  I  am  sorry.  You  must  believe  me  when  I  tell  you 
that  .  .  .  oh,  well !  if  I  had  guessed  in  India  what " 

He  came  swiftly  to  her  feet  at  this,  kneeling  beside  her. 

"  Yes — yes — yes  ?  "  he  cried  out. 

"  What  you  tell  me  now,"  she  continued  steadily,  "  I 
should  have  avoided  you." 

"  Avoided  me — why  ?  " 

She  drew  back.  "  Isn't  it  obvious  ?  Oh,  be  quiet !  " 
she  begged.  "  Be  a  man  !  If  these  people  hear  you  .  .  . 
there  are  no  doors  here." 

He  rose  from  her  side  and  stood  hungrily  looking  down 
at  her. 

"It  is  because  I  am  a  man  that  I  hate  and  loathe  your 
marriage,"  he  raged.  "  O'Hagan  stole  you  from  me.  I 
might  have  won  if  he  had  not  been  near.  .  .  .  Nonsense  ! 
I  can't  put  it  aside.  Don't  I  tell  you  I  love  you  ?  Don't 
you  comprehend  what  that  means  to  a  man  like  me  ?  Can't 
you  guess  ?  It  is  heaven  or  it  is  hell  for  some  of  us — and, 
I  think,  I  could  have  made  it  heaven  for  you.  ..." 

He  crossed  again,  drawing  near,  and  in  an  instant 
Lucy  moved  to  the  exit  and  called  out. 

He  caught  her  by  the  arms  too  late  and  leaned  down, 
whispering — 

"  When  the  man  comes,  order  a  glass  of  lemonade,  iced 
water — anything." 

"  And  if  I  refuse  ?  "  she  returned,  flinching. 

"  I  shall  hold  you  in  my  arms  and  kiss  you.  .  .  ." 

She  struggled  to  free  herself,  crying  out — "  Coward  ! 
Coward  !  " 

"  Promise — he  is  coming,"  he  insisted,  his  lips  very 
near. 

With  a  sudden  slackening  of  endurance  she  bowed, 
crossed  to  a  chair,  and  sat  down,  white  and  scared.  Peter 
Witterspoon  found  a  chair  which  rocked.  He  swayed 


THE  SILENCE  OF  ENGLAND 

restfully  to  and  fro,  his  breath  giving  evidence  of  the  stvc 
he  endured. 

A  negro  servant  entered,  received  his  order,  passed  out, 
and  returned  carrying  a  tray.  With  the  intuition  of  one 
whose  province  it  is  to  wait  on  others  he  read  the  signs, 
set  the  glass  before  Peter  Witterspoon  and  withdrew, 
pocketing  a  coin. 

"  That,"  said  Lucy,  with  frigid  contempt,  "  was  cowardly 
— you  are  a  cur,  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Dear  lady,"  he  smiled  in  spite  of  a  dawning  fear, 
"  even  your  whip  is  worth  striving  for." 

He  stood  up,  searching  her  face.  He  recognised  that 
with  some  women  this  would  have  been  an  interlude  ; 
but  with  Lucy  O'Hagan  it  was  the  end. 

'  You  promised  to  stay  behind  when  you  were  in 
London,"  he  complained,  catching  at  straws,  "  but  you 
did  not  keep  your  word." 

"  I  promised,  as  you  term  it,"  she  answered,  her  eyes 
suffused,  "  because  I  could  not  escape  in  any  other  way. 
If  I  could  have  trusted  you  I  might  have  stayed  .  .  . 
but  how  was  that  possible  when  you  showed  me  every 
minute  you  only  thought  of  yourself  ?  " 

Her  eyes  filled,  and  she  ended  on  a  rush  of  trouble 
— "  Can't  you  understand  that  I  love  my  husband  ? 
Isn't  that  sufficient  explanation  .  .  of — of  nvy  being 
here  ?  " 

Her  anguish  touched  him  as  perhaps  no  other  mood 
could.  He  discovered  he  had  been  to  blame.  It  dawned 
upon  him  that  he  had  behaved  like  a  cad,  like  a  cur,  as 
she  had  said.  That  hurt  him.  He  could  not  explain  his 
action.  A  child  could  have  shamed  him  here.  A 
philosopher  could  have  put  him  in  touch  with  the  truth. 
But  Peter  Witterspoon,  fumbling  with  the  new  jargon 
of  irresponsibility,  said  "  it  had  come  over  him."  Obvious 
even  to  the  sterility  who  mistakes  passion  for  love.  It 
was  contemptible — contemptible. 

He  explained  in  a  voice  vibrating  very  much  as  he 
desired — 

"  I  wanted  to  do  you  a  service.  I  wanted  to  persuade 
you  to  leave  the  Griselda,  because  she  is  not  sale.  You 
understand  ? — not  safe.  But  I  spoil  everything  I  touch— 
except  gold.  That  accumulates.  I  have  too  much  gold  ; 
but  you  who  have  so  little  will  not  let  me  help.  Your 
suspicion  maddened  me."  He  had  it  now ;  tightly  he 


376  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

gripped  it.  "  Maddened  me  in  spite  of  myself.  And  now 
you  are  angry  with  me.  ..." 

He  looked  for  some  negation  here,  but  Lucy  remained 
silent,  bowed  over  the  sofa  end. 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  stick.  "  Won't  you  forgive  me  ?  " 
he  pleaded. 

Her  shoulders  moved.  She  strove  for  control  and  said 
— "  How  can  I  ?  How  can  I  ?  Let  me  think,"  her  mind 
busy  on  the  advice  he  had  given. 

He  still  lingered,  watching  her,  shaken  by  the  know- 
ledge that  this  was  the  end.  He  put  it  to  the  test,  his 
voice  pitched  low — 

"  May  I  come  again  .  .  .  may  I  call  ?  " 

"  No — no  !     Go  away  .  .  .  please  go  away." 

' '  I  will  write, ' '  he  announced.  ' '  I  must  get  your  forgive- 
ness. I  will  not  trouble  you  again,  unless  you  call  me." 

With  that  he  left  her.  He  became  quite  sure  that  he  had 
made  a  very  dignified  exit. 

How  much  to  tell  Den,  how  little  to  tell  him,  very  soon 
became  the  question  over  which  Lucy  puzzled. 

She  was  so  young,  so  inexperienced,  so  alone.  She 
loved  her  husband,  and  was  pathetically  certain  of  his 
love  ;  but  she  had  no  woman  friend.  She  remembered 
Den's  face  that  night  when  last  Peter  Witterspoon  had 
come  between  them.  She  dreaded  that  look.  The  appal- 
ling indifference  it  showed,  even  in  the  face  of  death,  to 
her  presence,  astonished  and  bewildered  her.  She  could 
not  fathom  the  meaning  of  his  silence  as  he  kneeled  over 
their  dead  child.  It  was  not  anger.  It  would  be  absurd 
to  describe  it  as  insensibility.  It  was  a  stiffening,  a 
momentary  holding  back  from  all  communion  with  one 
who,  for  some  reason,  he  seemed  to  consider  unworthy. 

Lucy  could  not  read  Peter  Witterspoon  with  the  know- 
ledge of  a  man  ;  she  could  not  class  him  as  one  she  might 
not  trust,  whom  she  must  keep  always  at  a  distance. 
And  chance  had  so  ordered  it  that  he,  in  a  sense,  held  her 
in  his  power.  There  was  nothing  occult  about  this,  no 
indiscretion  or  stupidity  of  youth,  but  just  the  fact  that 
Peter  Witterspoon  was  the  controlling  force,  as  she  under- 
stood it,  in  the  company  which  owned  Griselda.  That  is  to 
say,  he  had  sufficient  influence  to  insist,  in  answer  to  her 
prayer,  on  some  sort  of  tardy  justice  being  shown  to  one 
who  had  been  harshly  treated. 


THE   SILENCE  OF  ENGLAND  377 

The  man's  immense  wealth  oppressed  her.  She  imagined 
him  juggling  with  life  and  death  ;  pursuing  her  until 
Den  grew  restive  and  turned.  She  dreaded  that  momcnl , 
which  might  so  easily  come.  It  drugged  her  faculties  and 
made  her,  as  a  little  while  ago  she  would  have  said,  "  see 
snakes  where  only  jungle  grass  existed."  She  decided  to 
tell  Den  everything,  after  an  hour's  thought.  She  crossed 
to  Battery  Park  and  revelled  in  the  glorious  outlook,  the 
Hudson  blushing,  the  ships  all  purple  above,  all  hre  to 
seaward  ;  she  returned  to  meet  him  at  the  restaurant  at 
which  they  were  to  dine,  resolute  not  to  burden  him  more, 
to  tell  him  what  was  essential.  Then,  after  a  jovial 
greeting,  she  noticed  a  shade  on  Den's  face  which  called 
for  comment. 

She  leaned  forward  over  their  table  and  said  in  that 
confidential  fashion  he  loved — "  No  bothers,  oh  dearest  ?  " 

"  Only  Peter  Witterspoon  has  come  over,"  he  said 
evenly.  "  He  was  on  the  ship  yesterday — chattering  as 
usual,  so  I  am  told." 

"  I  know,"  she  choked.  "  I  was  going  to  tell  you. 
He  has  been  up." 

"  To  see  you  ?     Oh,  well — what  does  he  want  ?  " 

"  He  wants  you  to  give  up  the  ship — and  he  wants  me 
not  to  go  home  in  her.  ' 

"  Hum  !  Has  he  any  proposal  to  make  as  to  what  I  am 
to  do  if  I  leave  the  ship  ?  he  asked  in  sarcastic  com- 
ment. 

"  He  says  he  will  find  you  a  ship  which  is  worthy  of 
you.  He  calls  the  Griselda  a  tramp — or  he  woulo^  give 
you  command  of  his  yacht  and  let  me  sail  with  you." 

O'Hagan  looked  up,  thoughtful,  quiet,  as  was  his  fashion. 
"  We  couldn't  do  that,  could  we,  Mem-sahib  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  if  he  comes  again,  tell  him  to  mind  his  own  busi- 
ness." 

"  He  will  not  come  again,  my  husband,"  she  said,  serene 
in  her  confidence  to  read.  Then  swiftly  leaning  near,  she 
touched  his  hands.  "  Is  the  ship  safe  ?  "  she  asked,  her 
face  alight,  the  index  of  her  love. 

"  Safe  ?     Oh,  yes— why  ?  " 

"  I  heard  something.  ..." 

"  From  Witterspoon  ?  "  he  frowned. 

"  No — in  dock.    Before  we  sailed,  you  know." 

"  What  was  it  ?  " 


378  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Something  about  deckloads,  oh  dearest." 

He  replied  a  shade  more  thoughtfully — "  I  understand 
there  will  be  none  this  trip  .  .  .  but,  in  any  case,  I 
believe  she  will  do  our  turn.  She  is  old,  I  admit,  but  there 
are  lots  worse  at  sea.  Pray  God  we  may  never  have  to 
sample  them." 

And  that  ended  Lucy's  attempt  to  explain  the  inex- 
plicable, to  get  Denis'  confidence  in  this  matter  which 
slowly  assumed  proportions  which  threatened  her  peace 
and  his.  Den  hated  the  name  or  sight  of  Peter  Witter- 
spoon  ;  but  Lucy  could  not  suppose  he  was  jealous. 

He  was  not.  He  was  too  sane  for  jealousy.  He  could 
not  look  in  eyes  which  lighted  at  his  approach  and  find 
room  for  doubt.  He  knew  that  Peter  Witterspoon  had 
given  him  his  ship.  He  knew  that  Lucy  found  the  motive 
power  which  drove  him — and  he  remembered  from  deep 
in  the  past,  that  David,  when  he  had  looked  upon  Bath- 
sheba,  made  Uriah  the  bearer  of  a  letter  ordering  Joab 
to  place  him  in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  and  to  retire  so  th  ;t 
the  enemy  might  slay  him. 

But  here  Denis  O'Hagan  permitted  imagination  to  sway 
him.  He  saw  Peter  Witterspoon  in  the  light  of  a  modern 
David,  searching  out  means  for  the  removal  of  one  who 
stood  between  him  and  happiness.  He  saw  Lucy  as  one 
but  dimly  conscious  of  a  pursuit  which  she  did  nothing 
to  foster.  He  saw  her  in  her  beautiful  purity  and  faith 
still  turning  to  the  man  who  had  been  unable  to  pro- 
vide her  with  means  to  save  her  child.  He  saw  himself 
cloyed  by  difficulty,  unable  even  now  to  render  to  a  wife 
the  love  and  gentleness  which  were  her  due.  He  knew  that 
these  things  beat  a  man  down,  make  him  boorish,  forget- 
ful, impatient ;  therefore,  he  refused  to  smudge  Lucy's 
soul  by  argument,  or  to  give  a  handle  to  suspicion  by 
vengeance. 

Peter  Witterspoon,  for  good  or  for  ill,  had  come  once 
more  into  their  lives,  and  they  had  to  face  his  presence. 
What  was,  was.  What  would  be,  would  be.  No  fighting 
could  alter  that,  no  stupid  pitting  of  muscle  against  muscle, 
force  against  force.  If  wit  could  win,  he  would  win  ;  if  not, 
he  would  be  snuffed  out.  It  is  written — and  we  are  the 
children  of  Him  who  wrote. 

Denis  O'Hagan  had  all  the  Celtic  vice  of  introspection. 
He  had  all  the  Celtic  headiness  of  a  victory  won  in  dreams. 
And  against  him  was  set  Peter  Witterspoon. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  ENGLAND  379 

Dull,  too,  this  business  man,  in  the  sense  of  soul  know- 
ledge ;  dull,  and  likely  to  remain  unkindled  by  his 
trappings  of  millions.  If  Peter  Witterspoon  moved  out 
of  his  groove  the  world  groaned  somewhere.  If,  because 
of  a  perceived  injustice,  he  withdrew  investments,  some- 
where in  dim  tenements  tortured  hinds  cried  to  the  God 
who  ordered  life.  If,  in  view  of  a  whim  or  scruple  or 
risk,  he  gave  orders  to  his  brokers  to  move  capital,  the 
small  and  the  great,  the  worker  and  the  man  of  leisure — 
all  were  touched,  perhaps  by  death,  perhaps  by  want. 

Peter  Witterspoon,  dull  or  riot,  could  read  these  things 
truly  ;  but  he  was  unable  to  read  in  Lucy's  glance  a  soul  in 
arms.  He  only  saw  eyes  that  dazzled  him.  He  could  not 
gauge  the  fear  she  had  lest  some  clash  should  spoil  Den's 
chance  now  that  he  had  won  fame.  He  could  not  know 
that  she  lived  for  the  recognition  of  that  wonderful  act  of 
Den's,  because,  in  Peter  Witterspoon's  eyes,  no  wonderful 
act  appeared.  He  deprecated  openly  the  stir  which  had 
been  made,  and  Sharum  presently  wrote  at  some  length  to 
explain  that  if  all  ships  were  compelled  to  carry  wireless 
installations,  then  good-bye  to  the  present  boom. 

Peter  Witterspoon  suffered  from  mental  indigestion. 
He  was  weary  of  ships  and  would  gladly  be  quit  of  them. 
He  moved  in  the  limelight  of  New  York's  home  life  as 
one  of  the  world's  great  ones.  If  the  ability  to  write 
fat  cheques  constitutes  greatness,  then  was  he  great ;  but 
at  this  moment  of  pained  abstention  Peter  Witterspoon 
more  nearly  approached  the  Temple  gates  than  at  any 
other  period. 

He  wrote  to  Lucy  begging  her  to  give  him  peace  by 
sailing  in  the  Cunarder,  and  received  an  answer  from 
O'Hagan  which  troubled  him  more.  He  replied  by 
stating  that  he  had  been  in  communication  with  Sharum, 
who  cabled  that  Mrs.  O'Hagan  might  accompany  her 
husband  if  she  desired  to  do  so.  Then  he  washed  his 
hands  and  took  ship  for  the  West  Indies. 

So  the  tides  moved  for  these  three  out  there  in  the  keen 
airiness  of  the  New  World.  Ebb  and  flow.  The  ordered 
sequence  of  mutable  things. 

Now  the  Griselda,  which  was  to  carry  these  two  to  the 
Motherland,  slowly  got  herself  unladen,  cleaned,  and 
commenced  methodically  to  take  in  those  cases  and  casks 
which  are  known  as  cargo,  without  which  the  English 


380  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

nation,  of  all  others,  would  go  hungry  to  bed.  How  deep 
she  would  be  when  all  was  shipped  remained  uncertain. 
Whether  a  deckload  would  be  added  to  increase  her 
jauntiness,  one  could  not  discern.  There  came  a  whisper 
about  "  Logs  and  tallow  which  would  have  to  go  on 
deck,"  but  the  notion  fizzled.  O'Hagan  gave  no  sign. 

The  papers,  too,  had  quite  forgotten  in  the  pressure  of 
events  that  the  Griselda  at  any  time  had  occupied 
attention.  She  seemed  a  very  ordinary  specimen  of 
British  Trampdom,  or  Linerdom,  whichever  it  happened 
to  be  ;  nothing  in  any  sense  heroic  or  masterful.  Some- 
times her  nose  was  in  the  air,  sometimes  her  tail.  She 
was  painted  in  sections.  She  had  a  big  list  to  port  to-day, 
a  list  to  starboard  to-morrow.  There  was  no  sort  of 
certainty  which  end  of  her  would  be  prominent  the  day 
after  to-morrow.  She  looked  sometimes  like  a  scow, 
and  sometimes  gave  the  idea  of  razor-like  proportions 
hidden  by  the  water  and  the  scum  and  the  floating  filth 
of  a  dock. 

She  had  received,  as  far  as  New  York  was  concerned, 
her  baptismal  fire  ;  and  somebody  would  see  that  she 
was  duly  recognised  in  the  world's  blue  books.  In  the 
phrase  of  the  country  which  received  her  fees,  she  was 
already  a  back  number.  It  is  possible  she  resented  this, 
considered  it  an  indignity.  It  may  have  explained  her 
ungainly  attitudes,  but  it  did  not  explain  why,  when 
these  eccentricities  had  been  acknowledged,  her  name 
again  filled  space  in  the  papers,  or  why  Treegan  and  young 
Evans  stood  damning  in  the  bridge. 

"  Look  at  this  !  "  said  Treegan. 

He  twisted  the  paper  and  Evans  stared  obliquely  down 
its  columns.  He  read  out  the  staring  headlines  : — 

"  THE  GRISELDA  AGAIN. 

Withdrawal  of  Promised  Orders. 
Substitution  of 

Others. 
Tin  for  Gold. 

Action  of  British  Government. 

Captain  O'Hagan's 

Position. 

His  Views. 

Ours." 


THE  SILENCE  OF  ENGLAND  381 

^  Treegan  read  this  out  with  characteristic  emphasis. 
Evans  commented. 

"Seems  to  me,"  said  the  chief,  "someone's  bein' 
diddled." 

"  I  have  it  in  writing,"  Evans  announced,  "  and  I'll 
hold  'em  to  it." 

"  Hold  ?     Who  ?  " 
'  The  Greek  Minister." 

14  You  canna,"  said  Treegan  with  decision.  "He's 
just  a  wee  understrapper  body  like  the  rest  of  us,  an'  has 
tae  do  as  he's  telled." 

"  I'm  thinking,"  said  Evans  after  further  investigation, 
"  that  the  chaps  who  handled  cash  come  best  out  of  this 
swim." 

"  Recht !  "  Treegan  made  answer.  "  When  it's  a  case 
o'  medals  vairsus  solatium  for  the  British  sailor,  grab 
hold  o'  solatium.  There's  a  taste  tae  solatium  ;  the 
ither,"  he  shrugged  out,  "  is,  weel — it's  maybe  here  an' 
it's  maybe  there.  I'm  no  enamoured  o'  buttons  when 
they're  gee'n  tae  save  folks  brass." 

That  may  be  taken  as  the  considered  opinion  of  the 
two  officers  ;  but  not  of  their  captain.  Their  case  was 
simple,  his  complex.  The  escutcheons  of  Treegan  and 
Evans  had  received  new  lustre  ;  O'Hagan's  retained  its 
smudge.  No  heartening  message  had  come  from  England, 
no  word  of  commendation  from  those  who  had  judged 
him.  For  O'Hagan  the  news  produced  heartache.  It 
seemed  almost  as  though  Authority,  in  spite  of  Captain 
Worsdale,  pursued  him  of  set  purpose.  He  questioned 
whether  Witterspoon  was  at  the  back  of  it ;  but  made  no 
allusion  to  his  suspicions.  Yet  the  thing  stood  over  him 
as  a  set-back. 

Lucy  had  no  love  for  newspapers,  and  now  that  Den's 
name  no  longer  appeared  she  neglected  them  entirely. 
In  consequence  she  was  ignorant  of  the  present  comment. 

She  had  discovered  that  Den  was  oppressed  and  less 
ready  to  smile.  She  caught  a  strained  look  in  his  eyes 
on  occasion,  and  she  recognised  the  almost  pathetic 
tenderness  he  showed  her.  It  was  as  it  had  been  during 
the  days  of  his  trial  at  Jake  Hall,  and  again  during  the 
long  probation  at  Glasgow.  She  wondered.  Her  nights 
became  restless. 

They  moved  about  this  new  city  which  neither  knew, 
staring  at  the  evidences  of  wealth  and  prosperity,  but  the 


382  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

spot  they  loved  best  of  all  was  Battery  Park  with  the 
marvellous  bay,  Governor's  Island,  the  Statue  of  Liberty 
and  wonderful  procession  of  ships  coming  and  going — 
vanishing  up  the  Hudson,  up  East  River  and  sinking  in 
the  seaward  haze.  Together  they  ascended  to  the  top- 
most storey  of  the  Singer  Building  and  gazed  upon  New 
York,  came  down  to  the  street  and  stared  up.  They 
stood  on  Brooklyn  Bridge  and  crossed  searching  out  new 
points  of  view,  and  they  saw  it  all  with  the  avidity  of 
children  who  presently  must  say  farewell.  The  flashed 
advertisements  over  Broadway  entranced  them — it  was 
a  show,  a  show,  and  they  were  seeing  it  all  for  the  first 
time,  with  the  idea  looming  in  their  minds  that  it  also 
would  be  the  last. 

So  they  came  hand  in  hand  to  their  final  week  and 
stood  for  a  memorable  hour  watching  from  their  favourite 
Battery  Park  the  sunset  dying  behind  New  Jersey 
Heights.  The  lights  were  already  twinkling  on  river  and 
on  shore ;  the  afterglow  had  passed  and  the  mammoth 
buildings,  stealing  ships  and  shadowed  walks  were  tinged 
with  crimson.  Afar  off  was  the  roar  of  a  City's  railways, 
the  clang  of  bells  mellowed  by  distance.  Occasionally  a 
hooter  sounded,  but  the  moment  was  one  of  peace — a 
peace  which  seemed  fantastic,  which  presently  would  be 
dispelled  by  the  brooding  Force  towering  over  all  in  the 
flaming  west. 

Denis  linked  Lucy's  arm  and  drew  her  close.  "  It  looks 
wicked,"  he  said  softly,  "  wicked — and  we  must  go." 

"  Back  to  the  homeland,  dearest,"  she  answered,  her 
cheek  on  his  shoulder,  "  back  to  claim  your  Star." 

"  Back  to  the  fight,"  he  swiftly  told  her.  "  Back  to 
make  them  eat  their  words  if  not  their  acts.  There  is  no 
star  for  sailors,  no  honour  but  the  thing  any  man  may  win 
who  walks  into  a  pond  to  save  a  drowning  cat.  Let  it 
lie.  It  is  not  worth  the  value  of  the  suit  I  swam  in." 

"  But — but,  oh  dearest,  there  is  the  Star  of  Greece. 
You  won  it !  I  saw  you  win  it.  .  .  ." 

"  Quite  true — yet  even  that,  it  appears,  we  may  not 
receive." 

Something  in  his  manner  made  Lucy  shiver.  She  clung 
tightly  to  his  arm,  her  eyes  on  his  in  the  fading  light. 

"  But  the  Greek  Minister  said    at   the  banquet 

she  began ;  then  halted,  and  added  brokenly,  "  What  has 
happened  now,  oh  my  darling  ?  Tell  me.'v 


THE  SILENCE  OF  ENGLAND  383 

He  faced  her  there  within  sound  of  the  sea,  only  a  short 
distance  from  the  scene  of  his  triumphant  entry  into  New 
York,  and  said,  more  calmly  than  before — 

"  The  King  of  Greece  has  been  talked  to  by  our  Board 
of  Trade  and  Foreign  Office.  These  folk  look  upon 
Orders  as  things  to  be  worn  by  permanent  officials  and 
Under-Secretaries  of  State,  so  that  they  may  be  decked 
and  envied  when  they  march  through  London  crowds  to 
a  levee.  If  sailor  men  wore  them  they  would  be  valueless. 
Besides,  owners  object  to  skippers  with  the  rank  of  a 
baronet.  Sharum  or  Witterspoon — somebody  has  ob- 
jected— and  the  Board  of  Trade,  which  is  the  humble  and 
very  obedient  servant  of  all  who  have  a  union  to  back  them, 
has  made  representations.  Result  ?  Oh,  the  usual  thing, 
dear  child.  I  go  down.  Young  Evans  goes  down.  In 
deference  to  our  Government's  wish,  the  Greek  Govern- 
ment propose  to  bestow  '  third  class  '  rank  instead  of 
'  first.'  Tinfoil  instead  of  gold  .  .  .  and,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  it  may  keep  it — eat  it — put  it  where  a  monkey 
puts  the  nuts." 

Lucy  clung  to  him  in  silence.  Throbbing  though,  her 
heart  bowed  before  this  supreme  littleness.  She  seemed 
stunned.  Perhaps  the  bitterness  he  betrayed  added  to 
her  sense  of  fear.  It  appeared,  indeed,  that  England 
delighted  in  tricking  the  men  who  feed  her  as  well  as  those 
who  fight  her  battles. 

"  You  shouldn't  have  married  a  sailor,  Kiddy,"  he  said, 
as  she  waited,  searching  for  light.  "  A  sailor  can't  climb. 
He  is  the  wrong  type  to  begin  with.  He  has  Wanderlust 
in  his  blood.  He  lives  for  the  open  spaces,  for  the  wilds, 
and  the  acquisition  of  dollars  is — is  very  difficult  for  him 
.  .  .  sorry  I'm  a  sailor,  oh  dearest.  It  handicaps  you." 

She  took  his  mood  instantly,  and  looked  up  with  smiling 
eyes,  very  near  the  sad,  stern  face  he  showed  her. 

"  It  is  I  who  handicap  you,"  she  faltered. 

"  You— little  witch  ?  " 

"  Me,"  she  decided,  her  hands  firm  on  his  arm. 

"  Then  I  love  my  handicap,"  he  laughed.  '  May  the 
good  God  find  me  no  worse  ! 

And  so  they  passed  throbbing  into  the  night  which  had 
closed  upon  them. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MINATORY 

THE  Griseldas  winches  clattered.  Shouts  from  the 
throats  of  frowsy  Italians,  working  slave-like  in  the  home 
of  freedom,  added  to  the  jangle.  Strange  orders,  stranger 
epithets,  made  havoc  of  America's  claim  to  assimilate  all 
nations.  Grouped  in  the  glare  of  clustered  lights  men 
shouted  and  jeered  in  Italian  and  Spanish  forward  of 
the  bridge,  and  wrestled  with  casks  and  Teutonic  gutturals 
abaft  it. 

New  York  stevedores  know  their  business.  There  is 
little  mixing  of  Latin,  Teuton  or  Slav  in  the  gangs  which 
handle  cargo.  They  avoid  a  confusion  of  tongues  lest 
the  seal  of  the  Tower  should  be  added  to  their  difficulties. 

The  Griselda  sweated  steam  at  every  pore.  She  had 
the  appearance  of  a  vast  hive  in  the  hands  of  a  bee- 
master  preparing  to  collect  honey.  The  steam  he  used  to 
still  the  bees'  anger  ascended  in  jerks  and  jets,  and  hung 
over  the  lights  in  wreathing  columns.  And  through  it 
came  the  cries  of  the  bees,  the  hum,  the  buzz,  the  scream 
and  clash  of  the  honey  jars. 

An  orgy  of  collection,  storage,  and  trundling  made  way 
there  in  the  steam.  The  bee-master  swore.  The  bees 
who,  it  appears,  refused  to  be  assimilated  or  asphyxiated, 
swore  too  ;  the  jargon  they  created  rose  through  the  steam 
and,  carried  by  the  breeze,  met  the  jargon  of  other  workers 
on  other  hives,  and  passed,  groaning,  to  the  heavens. 
And  the  stars  which  light  America's  night  looked  down 
twinkling  upon  the  world  of  men  as  who  should  say 
"  What  a  fuss  they  make — these  children  !  what  a  mad- 
ness is  their  vaunted  civilisation  !  Send  rain  !  Send 
rain  to  cool  them  !  " 

The  rain  came  in  generous  stream  ;  but  it  only  added 
to  the  din,  to  the  risks,  to  the  shouts  and  oaths  in  Italian, 
Spanish,  German,  until  a  sling  slipped.  Then,  in  sudden 
frenzy  of  silent  work,  men  gathered  together  two  still 
Lithuanians  and  carted  them  on  wheels  into  the  night. 


MINATORY  385 

The  Griseldd's  scuppers  spouted  rain,  gurgling  approval. 
"  Hither  we  come, 

Throbbing  we  come, 
Out  of  the  slums  where  they  sing 
Death  to  the  Rule  of  a  King. 

Over  the  sea, 

To  the  Land  of  the  Free, 
Prepared  to  be  Scholars, 
To  earn  you  good  Dollars, 

We  nave  come  ! 
Oh  God  !     We  have  come." 

The  Griselda  was  rushed — that  is  all.  It  became  neces- 
sary, at  the  last  moment,  lest  freight  should  be  stolen  by 
some  German  or  French  or  Italian  barbarian  competitor, 
to  add  to  Griselda' s  burden  a  deckload  of  casks  and  things 
which  might  not  legally  be  placed  in  her  hold.  O'Hagan 
saw  the  agents.  He  might  with  equal  benefit  have  seen 
the  Statue  of  Liberty,  or  said  a  litany  to  the  boss  of  Cen- 
tral Pacific  Railroad.  For  this  is  a  matter  which  is  out- 
side the  jurisdiction  of  British  shipmasters.  It  is  arranged 
in  cabinets  and  offices  far  from  the  high  seas  or  the  docks. 
It  is  part  of  the  Law  of  Exchange,  which  is  the  natural 
outcome  of  all  development.  It  is  part  of  the  process 
which  keeps  fed  the  heart  of  that  Great  Empire  which 
beats  so  calmly  amidst  the  floundering  ships  that  paddle 
and  screw  and  tack  to  keep  it  warm — ships  which  clothe 
it,  aid  in  its  defence,  draw  close  the  scattered  clansmen 
and  get  for  their  guerdon  the  lectures  and  sneers  of  an 
amazing  neglect. 

O'Hagan  was  a  Bottle-filler ;  Treegan,  Evans  and  the 
crew  of  the  Griselda,  down  to  the  tapered  indignity  and  tail 
of  things  known  as  "  the  boy,"  were  Bottle-fillers.  They 
were  there  to  fill  the  nations  crocks  and  pans,  even  as  the 
Lithuanians,  Slavs,  Italian  and  Spanish  emigrants  are,  in 
New  York,  Chicago,  and  all  other  giant  cities  of  civilised 
hustle,  to  fill  the  crocks  and  pans  of  America.  How  these 
things  are  filled  is  of  small  importance.  Fill  them.  If 
you  "  peg  out  "  in  the  process  there  are  others,  hungry, 
aching  to  step  into  your  shoes.  If  you  become  mad  in  the 
process,  do  we  not  supply,  out  of  our  great-hearted  benevo- 
lence, asylums  where  you  may  be  caged  lest  you  do  your- 
self an  injury  ?  If  you  become  broken  on  the  wheel, 
have  we  not  prepared  places  where  you  shall  be  made  whole 
— do  we  not  dower  and  speechify  over  the  question  of 
our  provision — so  that  you  may  be  mended,  patched* 

B.F.  c  c 


886  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

prepared  to  take  again  your  place  in  the  ranks,  on  crutches 
or  in  a  go-cart  ? 

Out  of  the  dark  we  come.  Through  the  dark  we  march 
blindfold  to  accomplish  destiny.  Into  the  dark  we 
return. 

Lucy  O'Hagan  was  one  of  the  wanderers  here.  Denis 
O'Hagan,  Treegan,  Evans — all  were  wanderers,  all  in  the 
hands  of  an  unavoidable  Fate,  shackled,  bound,  not  like 
Ixion  for  a  vile  attempt  on  Hera,  but  to  a  flaming  wheel 
known  as  the  Law  of  Supply  and  Demand.  To  the 
jugglery  and  injustice  and  unseen  misery  of  Competition. 
Lucy  O'Hagan  on  that  night  of  storm  and  breaking  lay 
for  the  last  time  where  she  could  see  the  lights  of  Freedom 
which  gleam  over  New  York,  the  sky  signs  which  proclaim 
in  arresting  flashes  the  beneficence  and  cheap  gaudery  of 
hustler  tradesmen.  She  lay  awake  because  Den  was 
absent.  She  pretended  the  lights  gave  her  solace  because 
they  gave  her  company. 

In  that  fashion  it  is  quite  easy  for  a  time  to  score  off  self. 
But  the  girl,  like  her  husband,  was  tired  of  the  even 
acknowledgment  of  failure,  the  dull  and  exasperating 
crunch  of  the  thing  they  fought.  And  now,  it  appeared, 
poor,  tired  old  Griselda  must  carry  as  a  deckload  weight 
which  would  make  her  crank. 

Treegan  the  authority  here — for  O'Hagan  had  tested 
her  only  in  fine  weather.  Crank  ?  "  Ou  aye,  more  than 
ae  trifle,  I'm  thinkin',  but  a  dorlach  to  the  stack  o'  last 
voyage.  She  wull  do  ...  she  wull  do." 

There  was  all  the  "  differ,"  he  explained  to  young  Evans, 
between  "  ninety  tons  o'  top  weight  and  one  hunner  an' 
seventy-five."  "  Given  ordinair  weather  she  wull  carry 
it  grand  .  .  .  wi  un-ordinair  weather  she  might  clear  her 
decks.  Ou  aye  !  an'  us." 

This  by  degrees  came  to  Lucy's  ears.  In  jibs  and  jabs, 
as  it  were,  of  talk  the  whole  press  and  circumstance  was 
put  before  the  girl  who  had  decided  to  follow  the  fortunes 
of  a  man  who  was  a  Bottle-filler.  She  learned  that  the 
steward  had  disappeared  because  of  it,  that  the  bo'sun 
and  two  of  the  hands  were  missing  for  the  same  reason, 
and  that  Treegan  minimised  the  hatred  he  had  for  deck- 
loads  because  he  was  married  and  could  not  run. 

But  O'Hagan  said  nothing  after  that  one  call  on  his 
agents  He  might  resign.  He  might  indeed  do  any  of 
the  fool  actions  open  to  persons  entangled  in  the  cogs  of 


MINATORY  387 

Supply  and  Demand.  He  might  apply  for  a  cage  in  one 
of  the  asylums  put  up  by  Philanthropy — and  get  it,  by 
simulating  madness.  Otherwise  he  must  keep  his  teeth 
shut,  get  out  his  sextant,  determine  his  compass  errors, 
and  start  on  his  way  for  the  Homeland. 

These  were  some  of  the  lessons  Lucy  had  learned  during 
her  coverture.  She  had  seen  the  Trial  at  Jake  Hall,  and 
had  suffered,  under  its  sentence,  even  to  the  loss  of  her 
child  and  her  home  ;  yet  they  made  no  great  impression 
on  her  as  she  lay  considering  the  companionship  of  the 
lights  of  New  York.  They  kept  her  awake — that  is  all. 
But  then  Den  was  awake  too,  watching  at  the  docks  the 
final  straws  as  they  were  placed  on  Griselda's  back  ; 
wondering,  as  Lucy  wondered,  why  in  the  world  she  did 
not  kick  them  off  Here. 

Ten  o'clock  on  a  glum  day  with  the  wind  making  talk 
in  the  squat  masts  of  adjacent  "  liners  "  ;  the  sea  blown 
white  on  the  Jersey  shore,  spitting,  no  doubt,  on  Sandy 
Hook  ;  and  Lucy  coming  on  board  boldly  by  day  clad  in 
the  garb  of  her  sex. 

The  ulster  which  had  taken  Tom  Brown  from  the 
steward's  scrutiny  still  cloaked  her ;  she  wore  the  same 
cap-like  hat,  the  same  small  boots  and  gaiters  ;  but  the 
dark  eyes  glanced  to-day  through  a  veil  which  in  some 
way  seemed  part  of  the  grey  fox  fur  which  nestled  round 
her  neck. 

Treegan  would  know,  young  Evans  would  know ;  but 
they  were  white  men,  accustomed  to  the  sea,  and  full  of 
a  seaman's  icverence  for  women.  O'Hagan  introduced 
his  officers  with  a  word  which  made  them  Lucy's  slaves 
and  his.  No  difficulty  to-day  in  reaching  the  Griselda, 
no  tribulation  or  uncertainty  on  the  score  of  Peter  Witter- 
spoon  ;  all  misadventure  swept  away  now  that  she  stood 
on  the  bridge,  listened  to  the  song  of  the  wind,  and  the 
haunting  dread  of  pursuit  was  ended. 

"  Free  !  "  she  turned  to  O'Hagan  as  they  crept  past 
Battery  Park.  "  Good-bye,  New  York  !  Good-bye,  sky- 
scrapers, sky-signs,  most  wonderful  Hudson,  good-bye  ! 
Free  !  oh  dearest,  to  be  with  you  !  " 

O'Hagan  turned  to  face  her  and  saw  lips  very  firm, 
eyes  brilliant  in  a  face  suffused  but  at  peace. 

"  Free  ?  "  He  smiled  back  his  hand  a  moment  on  her 
arm.  "  Aye— just  that  1  " 

CC2 


388  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

They  moved  down  the  bay  in  face  of  a  breeze  which 
whipped  small  wavelets  into  white  turbulence,  listening 
to  the  scream  it  made  over  the  land.  They  crept  down 
the  Narrows,  bowed  to  their  first  swell  off  Coney  Island — 
then  on  through  channels,  skirting  buoys,  till  Sandy 
Hook  lay  astern  and  the  purple  waters  of  North  Atlantic 
climbed  in  hills  to  obstruct  their  passage. 

Half  way  to  Nantucket  night  drew  the  curtain  upon 
them  with  the  solemnity  of  a  Moslem  spreading  his  carpet 
for  prayer.  It  came  sedately  upon  clouded  heavens, 
peeped  a  while  through  windows  which  blazed  upon  the 
track  Griselda  made ;  lighted  her,  made  her  ruddy 
amidst  the  hills  she  traversed  and  went  out. 

From  the  man  perched  on  the  forward  bridge  came  the 
cry  of  those  who  watch  as  one  struck  the  bell — "  Light's 
bright  and  all's  well  !  " 

Griselda  acknowledged  it  by  a  plunge  which  left  the  deck 
white,  gurgling,  like  water  in  a  tank  which  has  stirred. 

The  sound  of  slopping  seas  accompanied  her  in  her 
march  towards  the  dawn. 


So,  for  days  and  nights  the  Griselda  faced  those  slogging 
rollers  with  the  patience  of  all  driven  things.  She 
plunged,  reared,  tossed  back  the  brine  and  climbed  again. 
A  gale  sang  in  her  ears  ;  but  it  lacked  sting,  lacked  force. 
There  was  no  venom  in  the  squalls,  none  of  the  couched 
fury  of  intent.  It  blew  from  the  north  where  already 
the  land  was  white  and  snow-girt.  Its  breath  was  cold — 
cold  as  the  comfort  of  those  who  moved  in  dull  sequence 
from  the  wheel  to  the  look-out  and  from  look-out  to 
forecastle. 

A  chill  cave  this  rest-house,  feeding-house  of  Griselda  s 
crew ;  triangular,  built  of  steel  and  grimed  with  the 
scourings  of  dead  and  gone  sailor-men.  It  lay  in  the  eyes 
of  the  ship,  but  eyes  it  had  none.  Blinkers  screwed  hard 
upon  round  portlets  admitted  water,  but  obstinately  kept 
out  light.  Just  a  grim  cave  for  Jack  to  shelter  in,  seek 
sleep  in,  consume  that  giant  bill  of  fare  which  Parliament 
has  ordained  that  he  shall  eat.  A  place  where  he  may 
mend  his  torn  "  duds,"  wash  his  shirt,  dry  his  oilskins, 
smoke  his  pipe  and  launch  blood-stained  talk  at  the  men 
who  are  his  watch-mates. 


MINATORY  389 

A  wet,  dim,  unventilated  home  for  the  molluscs  and 
limpets  who  for  four  hours  had  clung  to  the  steel  shell 
that  carried  them  London  ward.  A  cave-like  space  with 
slimy  floor — a  floor  that  was  scrubbed  with  a  scraper, 
which  never  was  dry — which  usually  held  a  few  inches  of 
water  skippering  to  and  fro  to  keep  the  men  hard,  and 
now  held  six. 

A  bogey  stood  in  the  cave  puffing  smoke,  even  as  the 
molluscs  and  limpets  who  lounged  in  bunks  above  it  ; 
spitting  as  they  spat  each  time  a  sea  climbed  and  touched 
its  funnel ;  flinging  hot  ashes  upon  the  sodden  deck  in 
simple  spleen — perhaps  the  lord  who  built  the  thing, 
or  the  lord  who  sold  it,  may  know  whether  this  be 
possible. 

The  limpets  swore  it  was  spleen.  The  molluscs  were 
of  opinion  it  was  stupidity ;  but  the  stove  itself  said 
plainly  it  was  tired  of  alternate  heat  and  cold — tired  of 
the  seas  which  trickled  down  and  reached  it.  That  is 
why  it  spat  and  sizzled.  That  is  why  the  men  who 
lounged  in  bunks  struggling  with  sleep,  damned  the  stove 
and  sometimes  let  it  lie  fallow. 

Each  time  the  Griselda  slammed  at  a  roller  the  hiss  of 
a  thousand  squirts  accompanied  the  boom  which  sounded 
in  the  cavern  ;  each  time  her  stern  sank  Niagara  thundered 
overhead.  From  fo'c'sle-head  to  well-deck — from  every 
scoop  and  gully,  dipping  there  in  the  murk  above  the 
cavern.  In  some  ships  the  forecastle  is  called  the  pit, 
in  others  the  cavern,  in  others  Hell.  All  point  to  the  same 
dismal  end.  But  the  limpets  and  molluscs  who  had 
christened  Griselda  s  sheltering  thatch  scarcely  knew  the 
point  of  their  jest. 

Griselda  climbing  rollers  which  had  no  driving  force 
behind  them  was  a  wet  and  stupid  specimen  of  the  things 
which  are  hammered  out  in  scores  to  carry  the  shoddy 
supplies  which  England  demands  and  cannot  grow. 
Without  a  deckload  she  was  a  dabbler,  wet,  slow,  the 
sport  of  a  gale  should  it  find  her  ;  but  with  a  deckload, 
gale  or  no  gale,  she  was  wicked.  Her  engines  could  make 
her  quake  yet  they  could  not  make  her  spin.  She  was 
just  a  drudge,  a  beast  of  burden  run  at  an  economic 
speed,  upon  which  the  sea  could  leap  and  strive  to  smash 
her,  sectionally. 

Once  or  twice  in  her  life  the  seas  had  nearly  won  ;  but 
that  was  before  the  carriage  of  deckloads  in  winter  came 


390  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

into  favour  with  the  lords  who  rule,  and  she  had  staggered 
through. 

It  is  fine  to  fight  the  sea,  to  pit  intelligence  against 
force  and  win  through  a  flurry  of  snow  or  hail  or  cyclone, 
with  a  ship  which  is  competent  to  fight ;  but  there  is  no 
fight  in  the  staid  cargo  boxes  which  crawl  as  the  Griselda 
crawled  from  dawn  to  dark  and  from  dark  to  dawn  at 
seven  or  eight  knots  an  hour.  If  they  meet  a  gale  which 
is  a  gale  they  founder  or  turn  turtle. 

Last  voyage,  as  Treegan  bore  witness,  because  of  a  glut 
of  cargo  they  gave  her  a  deckload  which  made  her  dizzy. 
"  One  hundred  and  seventy-five  tons  o'  top- weight  .  .  . 
ou  aye  !  more  than  a  mouthful  .  .  .  an'  we  managed  to 
scrape  inta  Queenstoon — a  place  standin'  ready  for  us 
by  the  maircy  o'  God  .  .  .  an'  there  the  knackers  had  a 
look  at  us  an'  said  theengs,  Cap'n  O'Hagan,  I  wadna 
care  to  repeat." 

Sharum  would  have  rid  himself  of  Griselda  on  that 
happening;  but  the  boom  ran  high,  tonnage  was  scarce, 
and  he  was  under  contract  to  appear  yet  again  with  a 
"  bottom  "  of  certain  displacement,  and  the  Griselda 
sailed  for  New  York  with  Denis  O'Hagan  as  master.  A 
man,  you  will  understand,  who  would  have  been  adjudged 
mad  to  refuse  so  fine  an  opportunity. 

So  this  was  Griselda's  last  caper  under  the  red  ensign  ; 
and  they  had  given  her  every  incentive  to  make  it  her 
last  for  all  time.  Willy-nilly  when  she  reached  home 
she  would  go  to  the  knackers.  Perhaps  Norway  or  Japan 
or  Italy — all  growing  wary  of  late — would  look  kindly  on 
her  and  buy  her.  Perhaps  some  Jew  of  the  East  might 
make  a  bid  for  her,  change  her  name  and  keep  her  as  a 
trap  to  drown  pilgrims  on  their  way  to  win  the  green 
turban.  Some  day  when  the  gods  were  angry  she  would 
go.  But  the  Red  Ensign  would  fly  over  her  no  longer  ; 
the  house-flag  under  which  Sharum  had  grown  fat  and  the 
crews  of  Griselda  thin  would  be  dowsed  at  last.  Time, 
the  conqueror,  had  won.  She  had  helped  Sharum  to 
climb.  He  stood  on  a  pinnacle  very  plainly  assailable. 
Peter  Witterspoon,  sorrowing  in  New  York,  or  gone  to 
drown  sorrow  in  the  West  Indies,  especially  desired  to 
keep  his  name  out  of  tricksy  adventure.  Therefore  word 
had  gone  round  that  Griselda  would  be  sold.  No  hint  of 
her  capacity  for  mischief,  her  pendulum-like  swing,  her 
time-worn  boilers.  Let  those  learn  who  bought.  Other- 


MINATORY  391 

wise  how  may  the  round  world   wag  and  geegaws   be 
found  to  bring  light  into  the  eyes  of  those  who  love  us  ? 

The  wind  soughed  in  Griselda's  iron  shrouds  up  there  in 
the  dark.  Her  short  masts  cut  unerringly  the  segment 
of  a  circle  against  heavens  which  were  glum,  glum  as  the 
sea  which  lay  under  them.  A  door  banged,  iron  upon 
iron,  somewhere  in  that  pair  of  alleyways  beneath  the 
bridge  which  gathered  the  seas  and  sent  them  aft  like  a 
mill-race.  Young  Evans  coming  from  his  room  to  take 
his  watch  up  there  upon  the  bridge  stepped  through  it. 

The  chief  met  him  at  the  engine-room  exit. 

"What's  come  tae  the  weather?"  he  asked,  grimly 
critical  of  the  booing  outlook. 

"  Been  through  your  condensers  and  got  the  salt 
wrung  out  of  it,"  said  Evans. 

"  It's  wet  to  saturation,"  the  chief  admitted,  "  but 
there's  nae  blacklead  in  my  'condensers,'  as  ye  ca'  'em. 
What's  the  glass  doin'  ?  " 

"  Low — 28-85,  and  going  lower." 

"  I'm  gaein'  ta  bed,"  said  the  engineer.  "  I'm  verra 
tired  o'  twilight.  If  ye  come  across  the  sun,  or  ae  moon 
...  or  even  at  a  pinch  ae  star  that  shines  oot  ...  let 
me  know.  I'll  get  up  an'  look  at  it." 

He  clanged  his  door.  Evans  moved  through  the  swirl 
and  reached  the  bridge,  where  the  same  note  met 
him. 

"  Somethin's  brewin',"  said  Treegan,  as  they  came 
together.  "  The  old  man  says  we're  in  for  dirt.  That's 
true — we  are.  Dirt  spelled  big  an'  large,  an'  dinna  you 
forget  it.  I'm  gaein'  ta  bed — we'll  be  roused  out  before 
long.  The  course  is  N.  73°  E.  .  .  .  she's  doin'  grand — 
aboot  seven  knots.  An'  ye'll  ca'  the  old  man  if  ony 
change  comes.  He's  lying  doon  in  chart-room.  .  .  ." 

Dirt  was  about.  True,  it  was  in  being  if  smudged 
horizon,  glum  clouds  which  seemed  to  touch  the  mast- 
heads, and  the  slop  and  thump  of  seas  undriven  yet 
leaping  on  board  be  the  indices.  Neither  O'Hagan  nor 
his  officers  had  any  doubt  on  this  head  ;  but  the  man 
who  can  prophesy  whether  the  still  thing  we  term  Force 
will  develop  here  or  there  on  the  chart  he  examines,  or  in 
some  other  sphere,  is  unborn. 

Now  at  ten  o'clock  Evans  went  to  the  navigator's  room 
and  reported. 


392  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  It  looks  bad,  sir.  The  glass  has  steadied  on  28-75, 
It  pumps  a  bit." 

Pumps.  That  is  one  of  the  signs  that  the  thing  which 
was  brewing  is  brewed,  that  all  Bottle-fillers  should  be 
prepared. 

O'Hagan  read  the  barometer  and  stood  watching  the 
mercury.  Young  Evans  had  spoken  by  the  book.  It 
pumped.  The  gyrations  made  by  the  instrument  pointed 
to  their  lurching  progress.  Griselda  had  a  curious  knack 
of  rolling.  It  was  time  O'Hagan  went  on  deck.  He 
switched  off  the  light  and  passed  out. 

Glum.  Glum.  A  world  of  passionless  torpor  ;  clouds 
which  enveloped  them  as  in  a  case  ;  seas  rolling  in  the 
form  of  swell  from  the  north — steep,  long,  but,  as  yet, 
unlashed. 

Griselda  wallowed  solemnly  in  the  valleys  formed  by  the 
hills.  Sometimes  the  hills  tipped  her,  sometimes  rolled 
on  board,  sometimes  struck  her  and  fell  back  with  a 
splash  that  suggested  exasperation. 

And  the  black  night  couched  over  all,  throwing  out 
warnings  which  were  minatory,  listening  to  the  twitterings 
of  those  who  were  Bottle-fillers. 

"  Black  as  the  Earl  of  Hell's  riding-boots  !  "  said  the 
man  who  steered.  "  It's  a  knock-out." 

"  Black  as  my  bunk  in  the  fo'c'sle,"  said  a  grim  person, 
who  swore  to  his  apprentice  companion.  "  W'en  we  get 
'ome  out  o'  this,  sell  yer  bloomin'  soul  to  get  shut  of  the 
sea." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SP  LEND  IDS   MEND  AX 

AFTER  O'Hagan  had  been  on  the  bridge  an  hour  he 
had  learned  just  how  hardly  they  were  to  be  tried.  lie 
recognised,  too,  that  the  experience  was  due.  Had  they 
not  found  fine  weather  all  the  days  of  their  outward 
journey  ?  Had  it  not  been  fine  in  New  York  ?  Could  he, 
as  a  sailor,  expect  to  sail  kid-gloved  about  the  world, 
escaping  gales  for  ever  ?  Since  that  passage  in  the 
Sphinx  he  had  scarcely  come  in  touch  with  a  gale  worthy 
the  name — but  now  they  would  see  one. 

That  took  him  away  on  a  flight  which  told  him  he  had 
promised  to  call  Lucy  to  his  side  if  necessity  arose.  He 
questioned  whether  the  moment  had  quite  come,  and 
decided  at  once  that  presently,  if  he  knew  anything  of  sea 
and  sea  life,  he  would  be  unable  to  leave  the  bridge. 

He  crossed  and  said  to  Evans,  who  marched  to  and  fro 
near  the  compass — 

"  I  am  going  aft  to  call  Mrs.  O'Hagan.  Keep  a  look 
out  until  I  get  back." 

Evans  moved  to  the  wing  section,  acknowledging  the 
order,  and  O'Hagan  hastened  aft.  He  went  by  way  of 
the  flying  bridge,  that  plank-like  structure  which  Lucy 
had  crossed  on  the  night  of  fog,  when  he  had  won  his  star, 
and  midway  to  the  poop  he  paused  to  stand  awhile, 
staring  into  the  blackness.  The  jar  of  something  heavy, 
something  which  moved  as  the  ship  rolled,  told  him  it 
was  time  to  be  up  and  doing.  He  swung  from  the  bridge 
by  a  guy  rope  to  obtain  further  knowledge,  escaped 
crushing  by  a  miracle  of  handiness,  and  climbed  again 
to  the  bridge. 

In  that  short  interval  he  had  seen  peril  at  its  birth. 

The  darkness  was  a  factor  which  swiftly  assumed  new 
proportions ;  the  gale  for  which  they  waited  lifted  a 
minatory  finger,  now  that  he  had  seen.  He  completed 
his  journey  to  the  cabin  at  a  run,  opened  Lucy's  door  and 
found  he  had  no  occasion  to  call  her.  She  was  awake,  the 


394  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

light  fully  on.  He  saw  that  she  was  dressed  to  her  petti- 
coat and  wore  rubbers.  Water  rilled  across  the  bare 
deck,  and  she  came  to  him  at  a  run  because  the  Griselda 
compelled  speed  when  she  swooped  at  a  roller. 

O'Hagan  caught  her  and  held  her  close — "  Steady  ! 
little  Mem-sahib,"  he  said  in  her  ear.  "  Can't  play  tricks 
these  times  .  .  .  couldn't  you  sleep  ?  " 

They  swayed  together  like  dancers  preparing  for 
bacchanalian  steps  in  a  tango,  and  quickly  recovered 
balance. 

"  I  was  so  scared,"  Lucy  answered,  her  face  against 
his,  her  arms  round  his  neck.  "  Something's  banging. 
It  woke  me.  I  was  dreaming  of  collisions — there ! 
What  is  it  ?  " 

The  note  was  heavier  here.  It  came  with  the  booming 
stroke  of  a  drum,  the  clang  of  iron. 

"  A  cask,"  he  said  for  her  peace,  "  has  broken  adrift  in 
the  wash.  Wait  a  moment.  Cling  on  while  I  speak  to 
the  bridge." 

He  helped  her  to  the  settee  and  crossed  to  the  tube. 
He  whistled  and  stood  waiting,  then,  after  a  short  pause, 
said — "  Is  that  the  second  officer  ?  " 

A  faint  reply  came  back  and  O'Hagan  said — 

"  Call  all  hands.  Get  the  chief  out  as  soon  as  possible. 
I  shall  be  on  the  bridge  in  a  few  minutes.  Get  them  out 
quickly." 

Again  came  the  soft,  purring  answer — and  a  chord 
from  the  sea  which  drowned  it.  O'Hagan  replaced  the 
whistle  and  turned  round — "  We  shall  have  to  be  slippery, 
too,  Kiddy."  He  came  over  and  took  her  by  the  waist, 
holding  her  while  he  explained. 

"  The  deck  cargo  is  adrift  down  aft  here,"  he  said  in 
her  ear.  "  Don't  be  scared.  It's  part  of  the  game.  I 
spotted  it  as  I  crossed  the  bridge  just  now.  Lucky  I  came 
to  call  you  instead  of  using  the  whistle.  ...  I  think  it 
is  only  fair  to  tell  you,  seeing  it  woke  you,  eh,  dearest  ?  " 

She  accepted  that,  a  smile  on  her  lips  as  she  watched 
him.  Only  fools  are  blind,  she  said  in  her  heart,  but  even 
a  fool  could  read  you,  oh  my  husband  ! 

"  Always  tell  me,"  she  said  aloud.  "  I  am  not  scared  if  I 
know.  The  booming  woke  me  and  I  wondered  .  .  .  then 
I  heard  the  sea.  Help  me  to  dress.  I  must  come  on  deck. 

"  I  came  for  you,  '  he  said  \vith  what  indifference  he 
could.  "  We  shall  be  dancing  presently." 


SPLENDIDE  MENDAX  395 

"  I  knew  it." 

!'  How  ?  " 

"  Going  to  be  very  horrid  ?  "  she  asked,  ignoring  this, 
her  eyes  on  his. 

He  nodded.  With  his  head  on  one  side,  critical  of  her 
dress,  he  said — "  I  think  you  would  have  a  better  chance 
.  .  .  of,  of  getting  about  if  you  rigged  Tom  Brown  fashion 
to-night,  oh  dearest.  A  big  ulster  over  all,  no  one  can 
know  ?  " 

And  again  she  read  his  anxiety  without  comment 
beyond — "  Yes — I  agree.  Petties  are  in  the  way  on  the 
bridge.  .  .  .  How  she  does  jump  about."  She  unfastened 
a  band  and  kicked  free.  "  Give  me  my  knickics,  dear 
dearest  .  .  .  bottom  drawer  under  the  bunk."  She  drew 
off  her  rubbers  and  sat  balanced  on  the  settee,  clinging 
to  the  rope  he  had  fixed — her  life-line  she  called  it — 
laughing  at  his  gravity. 

He  told  her  as  he  slithered  to  the  drawer  that  the 
ends  of  a  ship  were  always  worse  than  the  middle,  and 
Lucy  accepted  his  explanation  with  a  glance  which 
caressed.  "  Of  course  they  are.  Isn't  that  why  they 
put  cabins  over  the  screw  and  in  the  bows  for  the  crew- 
people  ?  " 

"  The  crew-people,"  he  smiled  back,  "  are  limpets  in 
these  days.  The  only  qualifications  for  a  sailor  are  that 
he  can  speak  ten  words  in  English  and  stick  on  ...  two- 
thirds  of  our  men  can  do  neither." 

The  ship  swooped  savagely  at  a  roller  and  leaned  down. 
The  water  gushed  over  towards  the  saloon  door  as  O'Hagan 
handed  the  garments.  He  crossed  back  through  the 
slurry  and  called  up  the  bridge. 

"  Let  me  know  when  the  chief  is  on  deck,"  he  ordered, 
and  replaced  the  whistle. 

He  stood  near  guarding  his  wife  as  she  dressed,  listening 
to  the  thud  of  seas  as  they  lolloped  on  board.  Sometimes 
he  kept  her  with  one  arm  about  her  waist,  sometimes 
only  by  main  force  could  he  keep  her  from  a  swift  dash  at 
the  opposite  bulkhead.  He  questioned  whether  nainsook 
was  sufficiently  warm  for  the  conditions  which  presently 
would  arrive  and  said — 

"  Haven't  you  a  flannel  shirt  you  can  put  on  over  that  ? 
Wrap  up,  Mem-sahib.  It  will  be  cold.' 

"  I'll  borrow  one  of  yours,"  she  smiled  back  at  him. 
"  Tom  Brown  hadn't  much  of  a  kit  and  I  must  get 


396  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

you.  .  .  ."     She  came  at  him  with  a  run,  her  hands 
lifted.     "  Catch  me  !     Quick  !     Quick  !  " 

He  caught  her  and  in  a  passion  of  tenderness,  fear, 
ecstasy,  kissed  her  as  a  man  will  who  has  seen  danger 
and  averted  it,  who  has  seen  that  in  spite  of  his  obvious 
failure  the  girl  he  has  won  still  has  faith  in  him. 

"  You  recognise  it's  going  to  be  bad  ?  "  he  asked  under 
his  breath.  "  You  recognise  it  ?  " 

Lucy  faced  him,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  spark- 
ling. "  I  recognise  that  I  am  with  you,"  she  gave  him, 
glowing. 

"  It  may  be  too  much  for  the  Griselda,  dearest,"  he 
whispered  as  they  lurched  to  windward  and  a  sea  climbed 
slobbering  at  the  ports. 

"  If  I  have  you  with  me,  it  does  not  matter,  does  it — 
about  Griselda?  " 

"  Together  then  " — he  smiled  and  held  her  close.  "  To- 
gether— win  or  lose  ?  " 

"  Together  !  "  she  responded  and  met  his  lips. 

The  bridge  speaking  tube  raised  a  sharp  trill  and 
O'Hagan  called  into  it  and  listened — 

"  Yes— chief  there  ?  .  .  .  Right.  Tell  him  to  meet 
me  on  the  poop  deck  at  once." 

He  took  a  quick  survey  of  the  room,  pocketed  a 
revolver  and  joined  Lucy,  who  awaited  him  on  the  stairs. 
He  slammed  the  door  as  he  passed  through  it  and  took 
Lucy's  arm.  The  stairs  were  dark  ;  even  the  light  from 
a  skylight  which  stood  abaft  the  companion  was  shut  out 
now  by  the  closed  doors  at  the  top. 

"  It  s  like  going  into  a  tunnel,"  Lucy  whispered, 
gripping  his  arm. 

"  Or  a  drain,"  he  joked,  supporting  her.  "  Half  our 
days  are  spent  in  a  drain." 

He  was  uplifted  and  buoyant  in  the  belief  that  he  had 
succeeded  in  blinding  her  ;  but  the  phrase  "  in  a  drain  " 
recurred  again  and  again  as  he  stood  waiting.  He 
wondered  what  had  given  birth  to  it,  and  found  himself 
staring  at  a  sea  which  swirled  level  with  the  rail.  It 
would  be  horrid  to  drown,  madness  to  watch  others 
drown.  He  would  rather  use  the  pistol  he  had  pocketed 
.  .  .  but  there  was  Lucy  to  consider ;  they  might  not 
drown,  and  people  who  use  pistols  because  someone  is 
standing  on  their  toes  are  not  the  type  a  man  cares  to 
grip  by  the  hand, 


SPLENDIDE  MEND  AX  397 

His  gaze  took  in  the  threatening  aspect.  It  was  black. 
He  refused  to  minimise  it;  and  this  new  bother  with  the 
deckload  increased  his  anxiety.  Deckloads  are  a  curse. 
They  were  the  result  of  greed — our  competitive  system. 
It  was  a  deckload  that  caused  the  loss  of  the  Sphinx,  and 
now  that  his  future  depended  on  getting  the  Griselda  to 
her  corner  in  Royal  Albert  Dock  the  same  peril  had 
arisen.  Well— they  could  fight.  There  would  be  no 
pistols.  Fight!  Good  God!  as  though  that  availed; 
as  though  anything  availed  for  men  entangled  in  the  cogs 
of  Supply  and  Demand. 

And  yet  he  might  win  !  He  saw  the  possibility.  It 
crossed  his  mind  in  a  dozen  aspects  ;  what  if  he  did  win  ? 
one  of  them. 

Would  they  reverse,  quash  or  whatever  it  was,  their 
judgment  on  him  ?  Would  a  double-first  in  the  Arena 
of  Deeds  wipe  out  that  deadly  and  pursuant  discriminat- 
ing influence  known  as  the  Black  List,  which  held  him 
down  ?  Would  the  Foreign  Office  alter  its  opinion  ?  A 
wonderful  headiness  mastered  him  as  he  stood  there 
looking  down  into  the  drain.  He  decided  that  England, 
the  splendid  country  of  his  adoption  which  evolved 
persons  who  argued  that  deckloads  were  safe  because 
they  permitted  no  space  for  lodgment  of  the  seas,  would 
back  him  here. 

He  had  come  a  long  way  on  the  road  to  success.  He 
had  decided  to  fight  this  thing  to*  the  end — to  go  out 
fighting  if  need  be  ;  but  to  fight  if  it  were  only  to  prove 
once  again  that  he  was  not  a  fool,  that  he  was  not  addicted 
to  drink,  that  the  loss  of  the  Sphinx  was  due  to  her  deck- 
load  and  to  nothing  else  under  God's  stars.  .  .  .  He  had 
come  a  long  way  ;  but  not  all  the  way.  He  had  seen  too 
much  on  that  hurried  visit  to  the  well  deck.  And  there 
it  must  remain.  At  all  hazards  he  had  blinded  Lucy. 

He  drew  her  to  the  rail  at  the  break  of  the  poop. 
Together  they  stared  down  at  the  chaos  of  the  well.  Seas 
rolled  there  as  among  the  rocks  off  the  nearest  headland- 
seas  for  ever  charging  and  retreating,  creaming,  running 
pell-mell  to  find  exit ;  bashing,  thrashing,  tearing  amidst 
the  casks  and  cases  lashed  there  to  earn  dividends  for 
Griselda  s  shareholders. 

Safe  ?  Of  course,  on  paper,  it  was  safe.  Risk  ? 
Naturally  statisticians,  sitting  comfortably  in  warm 
offices,  proved  to  all  comers  the  risk  was  infinitesimal. 


S98  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

But  O'Hagan,  leaning  over  that  boiling  pot,  Treegan 
beside  him,  Lucy  at  his  elbow,  knew  just  how  great  was 
the  risk,  how  futile  were  arguments,  either  pro  or  con., 
at  this  moment. 

"  Get  the  hands  with  you  and  see  what  you  can  do," 
O'Hagan  ordered.  "  Look  after  yourselves  and  the 
devil  take  the  cargo.  If  you  can  secure  it,  do  so — if  not, 
pitch  it  overboard." 

Treegan,  with  a  watch  at  his  command,  summoned 
from  sleep  they  had  earned,  climbed  into  the  well  and 
the  fight  was  in  being.  Four  sailors,  two  boys  in  the 
process  of  acquiring  knowledge,  one  officer,  constituted 
the  forlorn  hope  which  set  out  to  prove  the  risk  was 
overrated  ;  to  prove  that  space  occupied  by  cases  cannot 
hold  seas.  The  seas  swirled  over  them  as  they  descended. 

The  chief  gave  orders  briskly  as  he  climbed  into  the 
swirl — "  Steam  on  the  winch  there,  Larry.  Get  her  coat 
off,  you  boys.  Open  your  cocks — an'  run  her  through 
gingerly  !  " 

He  vanished  in  the  black  night,  and  O'Hagan,  holding 
Lucy's  arm,  made  his  way  to  the  bridge. 

"  Anything  in  sight  ?  "  he  asked  Evans. 

"  Nothing,  sir." 

"  Good — I  will  take  the  watch.  I  want  you  to  go  aft 
with  the  chief.  Do  all  you  can  as  quickly  as  you  can, 
and  let  me  have  word  from  time  to  time.  We  shall  have 
wind  presently." 

Evans  moved  away  at  once.  Eight  was  the  company, 
there,  to  whom  this  task,  which  had  caused  the  loss  of 
the  Sphinx,  was  assigned. 

Six  men  and  two  boys,  working  presently  in  the  glare 
of  cargo  lamps,  which  Treegan  found  means  to  hang  over 
them. 

And  the  seas  swirled  waist  high  at  each  roll ;  the  cases 
clanged  ;  iron  doors,  crowbars,  slices  clanged,  the  winch 
spirted  gusts  of  steam,  gurgling  sometimes,  hissing  some- 
times, and  Treegan,  with  Evans  beside  him,  found  new 
swear  words  to  fit  the  occasion. 

They  worked  with  an  energy  which  was  eloquent  of 
their  danger.  They  worked  as  men  work  in  a  mine  when 
the  roof  has  made  a  prison  for  those  who  are  in  far-off 
galleries.  And  sometimes  they  succeeded  and  sometimes 
they  failed.  Breast  high  the  lolloping  seas  came  upon 
them,  knee  high  they  trailed  to  the  gutters.  At  all  angles 


SPLENDIDE  MENDAX  309 

the  deck  stood  under  them.  From  all  sides  came  a 
torrent,  eating  its  way  into  the  heart  of  the  deckload  ; 
stealing  a  case,  stealing  a  cask,  tugging  at  the  ropes  and 
chains  which  bound  them  ;  jamming  a  man,  nipping  a 
boy — devilish  in  attack  ;  subtle,  quick,  strong,  ready  in 
a  moment  to  smash  one  who  was  down. 

Midnight  saw  them  fighting  under  the  blear  dome 
which  stooped  to  shut  in  the  Griselda,  to  hide  her,  keep  her 
from  the  sight  of  those  who,  perchance,  might  consider 
her  conquered.  It  saw  men  wet  to  the  skin,  torn,  bruised, 
but  undaunted.  It  saw  men  fighting  for  life  with  a  full 
knowledge  of  what  otherwise  would  be  theirs.  It  saw 
them  baffled  by  the  weight  and  ferocity  of  attack,  four 
men,  two  boys,  two  officers,  dropping  their  tools  and 
tramping  after  the  mate  for  their  "  refresher."  It  saw 
these  Bottle-fillers  emptying  a  bottle  ;  taking  each  of  them 
in  dirt  or  blood  stained  fingers  the  glass  which  held 
three  pennyworth  of  rum,  drinking  their  tot ;  getting 
new  heart  in  them — something  to  make  them  savage, 
ready,  as  they  said,  to  sacrifice  their  soul-case  for  a  share- 
holder's dividend.  It  saw  them  re-enter  the  arena  and 
start  work.  It  listened  to  the  bang  and  crash  of  iron  and 
timber  ;  of  a  squeal  which  ended  in  laughter. 

Each  cask  that  went  overboard  in  the  blind  slurry  of 
black  water  rushing  there  in  the  well,  meant  something 
off  the  dividend  Griselda  would  pay  ;  each  case  smashed  a 
shortage  over  which  someone  would  mourn.  The  act 
of  God  would  come  in  here  ;  come  in  to  save  shareholders 
at  the  expense  of  those  who  write  risks.  True.  That  is 
the  splendide  mendax  of  the  sea,  a  phrase  upon  which 
even  the  unlearned  have  learned  to  frown. 

O'Hagan  stood  at  the  wing  of  the  bridge,  taking  duty 
for  his  officers.  Lucy,  with  a  girdle  of  rope  about  her 
waist,  clung  on  beside  him.  In  place  of  her  flapping 
ulster  she  now  wore  a  Bottle-filler's  suit  of  yellow  oilskins. 
Her  trousers  were  tied  with  ropeyarns  at  the  top  of  her 
boots,  a  lashing  was  round  her  waist,  both  sleeves  were 
gathered  in  at  the  wrists  and  fastened  over  mits.  She 
wore  a  yellow  sou'wester  over  her  cap  and  beautiful  hair, 
and  she  smiled,  considering  the  sight  she  presented. 

It  rained  steadily.  Wind  came  in  gusts,  as  from  the 
mouth  of  a  cave ;  cold,  biting  wind,  which  made  those 
two  pray  for  a  run,  for  a  walk,  anything  to  stir  the  blood 


400  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

and  bring  warmth — but  they  could  not  run.  Griselda, 
under  the  influence  of  top-weight,  made  it  uncertain 
which  side  of  her  would  presently  be  uppermost.  There- 
fore, Lucy  remained  seated  and  tied. 

It  was  two  o'clock,  and  the  Griseldians  had  won.  Ten 
minutes  ago  Treegan  marshalled  his  draggle-tailed  legion 
and  took  them  off  to  bed.  He  said  they  had  earned  it, 
and  no  one  challenged  the  statement  but  those  two  who 
remained  at  the  wheel  and  look-out,  working  double- 
tides  without  additional  pay.  Treegan,  Evans  and  the 
crowd  had  won.  They  had  proved,  with  the  help  of  a  tot 
or  two,  that  there  was  no  risk.  Deck  cargoes  were  safe. 
For  the  moment  some  seemed  inclined  to  bless  deck 
cargoes — their  own  at  all  events.  Had  it  not  found  them 
'  twa  goes  o'  rum  ?  "  and  who  that  has  taken  rum  in 
these  conditions^can  find  heart  to  curse  the  cause  which 
won  it  ? 

They  had  won.  Now  they  were  in  bed — wet  still, 
but  getting  warm,  tobacco  to  inspire  them.  Only  the 
bruises  and  cuts  they  had  received  troubled  them — but 
these  might  have  been  worse.  Lying  in  their  narrow 
pews,  Treegan  and  Evans  scarcely  better  served,  they  told 
in  fierce  speech  what  would  have  happened  if  Bill  Smith 
and  Ted  Flanaghan  "  hadn't  come  acrost  that  'ole  wot 
the  sea  'ad  torn,  an'  plugged  it,  an'  got  the  water  drained 
out  of  'er." 

And  O'Hagan,  marching  to  and  fro  between  wheelhouse 
and  Lucy,  admitted,  because  she  had  heard  Treegan 
report  it,  that  it  was  providential  the  thing  had  been 
discovered. 

"  A  ventilator  washed  away — shorn  off  at  the  deck, 
Mem-sahib.  It  left  a  fine  hole.  One  of  them  found  it  by 
falling  into  it — might  have  broken  his  leg,  by  Jove  .  .  . 
but  he  didn't." 

He  stood  over  the  dodger  seeking  to  determine  what 
faced  them  up  there  in  the  cave  of  the  winds. 

But  nothing  appeared.  All  black  darkness,  rain  and 
a  rising  breeze — scarcely  a  gale. 

^  At  three  o'clock  there  came  a  note  of  wrath  upon  the 
sullen  patchwork  of  cloud  and  sea.  A  rent  in  the  heavens 
through  which,  for  a  moment,  other  worlds  stood  out 
shining,  poised,  as  it  were,  before  a  lifted  curtain. 

The  note  swirled  and  rose  to  a  scream.  It  died  away 
and  the  rent  vanished. 


SPLENDIDE  MENDAX  401 

O'Hagan  stood  there  unmoved,  but  watching  the 
northern  horizon.  In  sailing  ship  days  he  would  have 
waited  no  longer.  The  warnings  he  had  received  were 
sufficient.  He  would  have  called  out  all  hands.  Sails 
would  have  been  clewed  up,  stay-sails  run  down,  and 
men  and  boys  would  have  been  busy  stowing  canvas. 

But  in  the  tramps  and  liners  which  bring  us  food  and 
paper  and  coats  and  cosmetics,  and  incidentally  find 
dividends  for  shareholders  while  our  fields  lie  idle,  the 
only  sane  order  is  screw  down  and  twist  ventilators.  And 
to  that  you  may  add,  if  you  will,  rig  life  lines.  O'Hagan 
could  do  no  less.  He  stood  on  the  bridge  very  much  as 
an  engineer  stands  on  the  footplate  of  a  locomotive  when 
it  rushes  into  a  tunnel.  What  he  would  meet  in  the 
tunnel  he  could  not  say.  Whether  it  would  be  as  black 
as  it  looked  was  in  the  lap  of  the  gods.  Screw  down 
your  ventilators,  caulk  them  if  there  be  time.  Twist  the 
cowls  up  there  over  the  stokehold,  so  that  the  black  squad 
may  keep  dry.  A  tramp  is  a  machine.  Good.  Let 
her  rip  into  the  tunnel. 

But  a  difference  exists.  A  train  runs  on  lines  which 
are  of  steel,  guided  and  warned  by  a  fine  network  of 
signals  ;  a  tramp  runs  on  lines  which  are  traced  on  a 
chart  by  people  who  have  no  hand  in  the  driving,  who 
scarcely  know  the  sea  or  its  moods,  and  have  small 
occasion  to  learn. 

Griselda,  stone-heroine  of  the  Teutons,  slopped  boldly 
towards  the  tunnel.  She  rolled  at  it  and  the  wash  of 
water  in  her  well  decks  sounded  high  above  the  swish  of 
her  passage.  Noises  from  the  stokehold  came  clanging  to 
the  bridge.  The  clatter  of  a  shovel,  the  escape  of  steam, 
voices  from  the  men  who  delved  for  coal,  all  came  resonant 
and  round  to  the  vault  which  held  her,  echoed  and  died. 

A  lull  had  begun.  A  failing  of  the  gale,  such  as  it  was, 
which  had  throttled  them  since  leaving  New  York.  A 
still,  brooding,  pondering  halt — as  though  He  who  lifted 
the  whip  paused  to  consider  where  best  He  might  strike. 
Griselda  lay  guzzling  the  brine  on  either  hand,  playing 
at  see-saw  in  the  face  of  Omnipotent  Force ;  pretending 
she  was  competent  to  roll  and  lurch  and  hang  shivering 
on  her  bends  as  the  Strathmuir,  fashioned  as  we  have  seen 
by  Glasgow. 

O'Hagan  released  the  line  which  held  Lucy  to  the  rail 
and  led  her  to  the  chart-room. 

B.F.  D  D 


402  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Switch  on  the  light  and  read  the  glass  for  me,"  he 
begged.  "  I  mustn't  blind  myself.  Don't  come  out  till 
I  knock,  but  switch  off  the  light  as  soon  as  you  have  made 
your  reading." 

"  A-cha,  Sahib,  can  do,"  she  smiled  up  at  him. 

"  It  will  be  pumping,  Mem-sahib — get  a  mean  as 
nearly  as  possible." 

And  again  as  he  opened  and  closed  the  door  upon  her 
she  gave  him  the  Eastern  acknowledgment. 

O'Hagan  returned  and  spoke  through  a  tube  into  the 
engine-room.  "  How  are  the  wells  ?  "  he  asked,  and  got 
for  answer  that  all  were  normal  except  No.  4,  where  five 
feet  still  remained.  "  But  we're  getting  it  under.  She'll 
be  dry  in  an  hoor,"  said  a  Scot. 

Satisfactory  so  far.  It  might  be  worse.  Five  minutes 
elapsed,  then  O'Hagan  went  round  to  find  Lucy.  She 
was  clinging  to  the  door-handle,  the  light  out,  ready  with 
her  reckoning — 

"  Twenty-eight  ninety,  as  nearly  as  I  can  get,  oh 
dearest,"  she  reported. 

"  Pumping  much  ?  " 

"  Two  to  three  tenths — and  there  are  sparks  or  some- 
thing in  the  tube." 

"Hum.  .  .  ." 

"  That  bad  ?  "  she  asked  as  he  led  her  back  to  her 
corner. 

"  It's  going  to  sneeze,"  he  said,  "  but  we  are  ready. 
We  can  stand  it  ...  there's  lots  of  sea-room  here."  He 
glanced  around.  "  It  will  come  out  there  where  the 
stars  showed  just  now." 

"  A  gale  ?  "  she  questioned  a  little  wistfully  he  thought 
— but  he  dared  not  deceive  her  here.  In  an  hour  the 
thing  would  be  upon  them,  or,  at  latest,  with  sunrise. 
He  came  quite  near  her  and  took  her  hand. 

"  It  will  be  heavy,"  he  said,  his  cheek  touching  the  wet 
glove  she  wore. 

;'  Worse  than  that  night  in  the  Strathmuir  ?  " 

"  Worse  without  doubt.  One  of  the  Atlantic  parti- 
culars— one  of  the  sort  we  used  to  ask  for  when  we  were 
running  the  Easting  down  in  the  old  days,  or  when  we 
were  past  the  Western  Islands  and  homeward  bound.  .  .  . 

"  Generally  we  got  one,  too,"  he  chuckled,  "  sometimes 
half  a  dozen  on  end,  sometimes  two  or  three  rolled  in  one. 
Coming  home  from  Melbourne,  too,  anywhere  between 


SPLENDIDE  MENDAX  403 

South  Cape  and  the  Horn  we  danced  before  gales  and 
asked  for  them  .  .  .  but  that  was  in  a  sailing  ship,  oh 
dearest— cadet  ship  if  that  is  plainer,  and  we  knew  what 
to  do  with  a  breeze.  .  .  . 

"  Steamers  want  quiet  weather.  Sailing  ships  want 
wind — that  is  the  difference  between  them.  .  .  .  Gules  ! 
Good  heavens,  to  read  the  accounts  of  some  of  the 
passages  one  would  imagine  that  gales  were  hurricanes, 
cyclones,  typhoons,  everything  of  the  biggest.  Atlantic 
gales  are  pretty  bad — but  they  rarely  touch  hurricane 
force,  luckily.  The  boats  make  hurricanes  of  them. 
That  is  the  truth.  If  a  hurricane  really  swept  the  Atlantic 
to-day  between  forty  and  fifty  north  latitude  half 
England  would  be  in  mourning  to-morrow.  Luckily 
they  don't — make  your  dear  mind  easy  on  that.  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  tell  her  that  28.75  and  28.90  were  cyclonic 
readings  at  this  season  ;  that  the  sparks  she  saw  pointed 
to  one  of  the  worst  of  Atlantic  gales.  Not  a  word  either 
of  that  deckload  which  troubled  him,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  Treegan  had  managed  to  secure  it. 

But  he  did  not  know  Griselda.  And  had  he  known 
her,  there  was  but  one  order  he  could  give — "  Screw  down 
and  caulk  ventilators,"  and  after  that  "  spray  oil  upon 
the  water  while  she  lets  you." 

Again  he  marched,  considering  the  portents,  sometimes 
halting  to  speak  a  word  to  Lucy,  to  ask  if  her  chair  was 
firm,  to  look  through  the  small  slide  into  the  binnacle. 
Once  he  scribbled  a  note  and  sent  it  to  the  engineer  on 
duty. 

A  blur  confronted  him  each  time  he  paused  to  look 
ahead.  A  brumous  smudge  without  horizon  or  any  hint 
of  it.  No  lights  anywhere  but  the  dim  phosphorescent 
gleam  down  there  in  the  well,  and  the  shimmer  overside 
as  they  struck  fire  from  the  seas.  Less  wind  again. 
Swell  becoming  confused,  leaping  at  the  bow  as  well  as 
the  beam.  Pish  !  Nothing  in  sight  but  the  spume  it 
made.  The  crash  of  slopping  seas  the  only  sound. 
Someone  yawned  down  there  in  the  stokehold. 

"  Eyah  !  " 

He  rattled  his  shovel  and  a  furnace  door  clanged.  More 
work  accomplished.  Relief  near.  Thank  God  ! 

O'Hagan  stared  out  upon  his  command ;  this  vessel, 
which  had  enabled  him  to  win  a  star  and  now  mocked  from 
the  black  darkness  he  faced, 

D  D  2 


404  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

She  was  there  to  respond  to  his  call,  should  he  call ; 
to  do  his  bidding ;  to  twist  hither  and  thither  while  her 
rudder  remained  good.  She  was  there  as  a  dim  figure  of 
something  that  throbbed  and  swayed  beneath  his  feet. 
Something  he  could  feel  but  could  not  see  ;  something 
which  moved  and  splashed,  twisted,  lurched,  groaned, 
burrowing  like  a  mole  in  seas  which  marched  with  in- 
creasing sting. 

He  stood  there  watching  her,  searching  the  horizon, 
and  an  acrid  smell  assailed  his  nostrils  ;  he  moved  at  once 
to  the  compass  and  stood  sniffing,  twisting  the  binnacle. 

"  Smell  anything  ?  "  he  called  out  to  Lucy. 

"  Smoke,"  she  replied  from  her  corner. 

"  See  anything — out  there  to  windward  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  oh  dearest,"  came  back  after  a  pause. 
"  Why  ?  " 

"  Something  passing  !  "  he  called  back.  He  crossed, 
and  blew  a  blast  on  the  whistle,  a  long  note. 

Then  after  a  minute  sounded  the  answer — the  deep  and 
sonorous  bellow  of  one  of  the  flyers. 

The  smoke  passed.  The  steamship  passed.  They  had 
not  seen  her,  but  O'Hagan  knew  that  a  greyhound  had 
overhauled  them,  brushed  past,  and  that  all  was  well. 

Then  from  the  fiddley  grating  came  the  voice  of  one  of 
the  black  squad — 

"  Say,  Bill,  wot's  the  difference  between  a  mail-boat  an' 
a  tramp  ?  " 

And  an  answering  voice  which  said — "  Difference  ?  All 
the  bloomin'  world.  One  drowns  millionaires  and  the 
other  drowns  sailors." 

"  Call  yerself  a  sailor — bah  !  " 

"  Board  o'  Trade  does — not  me,  sonny.  Get  dahn  to 
yer  job." 

Eight  bells.  Four  o'clock.  Something  brewing  up 
there  in  the  dark.  O'Hagan  examining  the  lashings  of 
Lucy's  chair,  and  pulling  tight  a  life-line  for  his  own 
protection.  He  came  over  and  stood  a  moment  to  cheer 
her. 

"  Sure  you  are  warm,  little  girl  ?  " 

"  Quite— quite." 

She  captured  his  hand  and  hugged  it. 

"  It  will  be  on  us  now,"  he  said,  stooping  near.  "  Better 
go  into  the  chart-room  and  lie  down  ?  " 


SPLENDIDE  MENDAX  405 

"I  will  stay  here,  unless— unless  it  makes  you  anxious." 

He  knew  that  he  was  anxious,  but  he  knew,  too,  that 
the  chart-room  would  not  alter  that.  He  pressed  her 
hand,  and  said — 

"  No— stay  for  a  time,  at  all  events,"  then  moved  away 
to  send  a  message  to  turn  out  the  crew. 

A  call  this  for  those  drenched  sea-boys  who  were  drying 
in  their  bunks  ;  a  call  for  Evans  and  Treegan  to  get  out  of 
their  too  small  bunks  ;  get  into  war-paint  and  tackle  their 
duty. 

'  There's  something  adrift  down  aft  again,"  O'Hagan 
announced  when  Treegan  stood  beside  him.  "  You  must 
get  the  hands  together  and  see  what  you  can  do  with 
it.  .  .  ." 

"  It  wull  be  the  casks,"  said  the  chief.  "  There's  nae 
lashin'  spun  that  wull  hold  them  in  this  wash.  An'  if  I 
can't  secure  them,  what  wull  I  do  ?  " 

"  Put  them  over  the  side,  my  friend.    I  leave  it  to  you." 

"  It's  dune,  sir,"  said  Treegan.  "  I  gie  ye  my  word  on 
that." 

Out  there  in  the  north-east  a  gleam  appeared  as  the 
chief  left.  In  three  minutes  it  had  lifted  to  an  arch 
which  spanned  the  heavens  midway  to  the  zenith.  Then 
a  squall  swept  up  to  give  life  to  the  game,  to  give  men 
something  to  fight.  To  brush  away  this  pot-house  gloom 
and  let  them  see  what  came. 

It  advanced  whirring,  and  nearly  in  line  with  the  swell 
which  had  kept  them  rolling  thus  far  from  New  York. 
Wind,  rain,  hail  accompanied  it,  and  the  Griselda  swayed 
white  upper  works  upon  the  dazed  sea.  It  came  towering 
under  the  dome  which  was  their  world,  hung  one  moment 
overhead  and  flamed.  Blue  lightning  tore  the  black 
envelope  which  shut  them  in — four  or  five  rivulets,  zig-zag, 
brilliant,  down,  up,  across ;  and  a  roar  crashed  out, 
drowning  all  sound.  It  flung  from  high  heaven  a  bolt 
forged  where  none  wield  hammer,  grip  tongs,  or  batter  on 
an  anvil — and  Griselda,  ambling  staidly  her  eight  knots, 
failed  to  intercept  it. 

She  lay  over  to  the  gale,  astonished  at  its  vigour,  lighted 
one  dazzling  moment  from  truck  to  waterline,  then  passed 
hissing  into  black  night  swiftly  as  she  had  emerged. 

The  squalls  kept  her  alive.  They  came  upon  her  in 
screaming  and  swift  succession.  The  swell  became  a  sea, 
capped  and  militant.  It  broke  on  board  with  drum-like 


406  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

thud,  which  speaks  of  weight,  of  force,  whipped  up  and  set 
roving  amidst  bollards  and  hatches,  winches,  steam-pipes, 
and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  equipment.  It  came  battering 
upon  closed  doors,  upon  skylights,  climbing  to  the  poop 
deck,  the  bridge,  smashing  at  windows  and  tearing  with 
giant  fingers  at  the  lashings  of  the  deckload. 

In  ten  minutes  the  seas  were  a  hissing  expanse  of  white 
foam,  torn  by  the  wind,  beaten  flat  by  the  hail ;  seas 
which  twisted  under  the  attack  and  aimed  surreptitious 
prods  at  the  Griselda,  pushing  at  her,  leaping  at  her, 
pouring  broadsides  upon  her  and  the  netted  atoms  who 
fought  her.  From  stem  to  stern,  for  one  gorgeous  hour, 
Griselda  showed  but  her  plank  bridges,  spanning  chasms 
which  brimmed  with  white  spume  as  she  rolled. 

No  deckload  visible  now,  but  plenty  of  room  for  the 
seas.  Cases  grinding,  casks  working  loose,  lashings, 
planks,  quoins ;  all  those  driven-in  wedges  with  their  cun- 
ning admixture  of  rope  and  chain  and  screw  and  batten 
at  hazard — now  that  Force  was  abroad.  The  netted  atoms 
at  work  though,  striving  in  a  fine  fury  of  intelligent  aim 
to  beat  back  the  black  god  who  drove,  flicking  with  his 
whip  at  their  vitals.  Treegan  and  Evans  led  them  on — 
"  Before  the  sea  gets  up,  my  sons  !  "  was  the  word. 
"  Over  with  her  !  Bang  goes  saxpence  !  " 

Sometimes  the  stars  peeped  down  upon  them,  some- 
times a  squall  flung  hail  and  blackness  ;  at  every  moment 
the  lurching  became  heavier,  the  risks  they  ran  in  that 
swirl  more  terrible.  They  worked  in  a  dun  glow,  which 
presently  would  be  daylight — a  coppery  tinge  glazed  over 
sea  and  sky,  wonderful  to  consider. 

Up  there  on  the  bridge  O'Hagan  watched  and  strove  to 
dodge  the  seas.  With  the  helm  and  engines  he  worked 
his  ship  so  that  the  impact  should  be  lessened  ;  twisting 
her  so  that  she  might  plunge  less  steeply  in  the  next  abyss. 
And  in  the  engine-room  were  men  who  assisted  the  gover- 
nor, men  who  obeyed  that  clanging  telegraph  set  up  before 
them ;  who  twisted  levers,  opened  and  shut  valves, 
shouting  orders  at  those  who  fired.  They  stood  on  grat- 
ings, close-penned  against  the  sea  by  steel  walls,  which 
hummed  as  the  fires  hummed,  crackled  as  under  gunfire, 
hissed  as  the  ashes  hissed  and  spat,  now  that  water 
rilled  upon  the  plates.  Machines  elsewhere  were  helping 
— pumps  set  on  brackets  and  bulkheads  these ;  pumps 
with  plungers  gurgling,  crossheads  clucking,  steam 


SPLENDIDE  MENDAX  407 

hissing;  pumps  which  must  keep  that  water  down 
which  was  growing,  otherwise  in  all  that  clanging  space 
there  would  be  silence,  cranks  at  rest,  fires  cold,  Griselda 
still. 

Three  bells.  Half -past  five.  Dark  still  and  likely  to 
be  darker.  Clouds  racing  to  smother  that  glow  which  the 
wilderness  had  produced  ;  to  blot  out  that  small  band  of 
Bottle-fillers  who  strove  so  noisily,  with  Treegan  and 
Evans  at  their  head,  to  rid  Griselda  of  those  casks  and 
cases  which  should  have  earned  dividends  for  her  share- 
holders. 

"  Bang  goes  saxpence  !  Bang  goes  a  dollar  !  pot  o' 
it  1  Got !  '  Ma  mither  will  no  let  me  hae  any  mair  Oxo 
— she  says  it  makes  me  grow  oot  o'  ma  claes  !  '  '  sang 
a  voice. 

"  Who  says  grog  oh  ?  "  another. 

And  through  the  din  a  squall  crept  up,  clouds  screening 
it,  and  found  the  Griselda  lurching  as  of  old,  inclined  to 
tilt  and  shoot  all  those  noisy  ones  into  the  sea.  It  found 
her  lurching,  climbing  with  infinite  pain  the  hills  which 
rose  in  her  path,  slithering  into  the  valleys  they  sucked. 
With  the  pertinacity  of  a  machine  intended  by  her  makers 
to  maintain  an  even  keel  she  ploughed  towards  the  dawn. 

O'Hagan  scented  what  was  coming,  but  could  not 
gauge  its  approach  nor  its  weight.  A  squall  lifted  in  an 
arch  out  there  in  the  gloom.  That  he  knew.  Rain  and 
hail  accompanied  it,  hissing  down  the  slopes.  They  were 
surfeited  with  squalls — yet  others  advanced.  No  door- 
ways here  for  shelter,  no  roof  to  screen,  no  lee  side — only 
the  declared  fury  of  the  wilderness  striking  at  their  throat. 

O'Hagan  brought  his  ship  nearer  the  wind.  He  strove 
to  meet  the  seas  with  less  shock,  and  in  the  near  distance, 
broad  on  the  bow  moved  one  of  those  giants  which  the 
oceans  keep  in  store  and  send  out  on  occasion  to  sweep 
the  seas  clean. 

No  line  of  skirmishers  climbing  before  to  give  warning. 
Only  the  wind  note,  the  crash  of  seas  in  the  wells,  the 
scythe-like  approach  of  hail. 

O'Hagan  crept  to  the  high  side  and  stood  a  moment 
before  Lucy.  He  took  her  hands.  "  Come  into  the 
chart-room,  dearest.  It  isn't  fit  for  you  here." 

"  Can  you  come  too  ?  "  she  asked  throbbing,  drawing 
him  near. 

"  Not  now  !  " 


408  THE  BOTTLE-FILLERS 

"  Then  I  will  stay,  oh  dearest." 

"  Right.     God  bless  you  !  " 

He  squeezed  her  hands,  and  she  saw  him  move  away. 
He  took  up  his  stand  as  before  near  the  compass,  the 
telegraphs,  close  to  the  open  window  of  the  wheel  house. 
It  was  just  possible  sometimes  to  catch  an  outline  of  him 
against  the  dark  background,  a  gleam  thrown  by  the 
binnacle  on  his  face,  a  gleam  on  the  wet  surface  of  his 
oilskins  or  sou'wester. 

She  sat  shivering  in  her  chair,  cramped  and  cold  in 
spite  of  her  denial,  because  in  some  dim  way  she  under- 
stood. Den  had  not  said  there  was  peril,  but  Lucy  knew. 
Her  voyages  to  the  East  had  given  her  a  hint,  the  Strath- 
muir  had  shown  very  plainly  what  a  deep-laden  vessel 
may  do  in  a  sea-way.  She  knew  what  she  knew. 

Out  there  in  the  blackness,  behind  that  drumming 
canvas  which  screened  her,  a  giant  sea  moved  down  to 
intercept  them.  It  advanced  in  stages,  darkness  its 
cloak.  It  came  with  a  fizzle  of  white  at  its  crest,  spewing, 
fresh  from  a  march  which  had  seen  bergs,  floes  and  the 
bare  shelters  of  the  pack.  Through  the  sea  of  whales  it 
had  come,  growing  in  height,  in  extent  and  momentum. 
From  the  white  edge  of  the  world  where  the  kayak  is  to 
be  seen,  to  the  Atlantic  it  had  come,  threatening  in  its 
march  all  those  monsters  which  dart,  not  as  the  kayaks 
from  headland  to  headland  and  bay  to  bay ;  but  from 
world  to  world,  carrying  men  and  women,  music  and 
swimming-baths  to  amuse  them,  where  the  land  is  not. 
Here,  too,  go  strange  fire  ships,  carrying  loads  and  some- 
times spilling  them  ;  things  which  spit  hot  ashes  upon  the 
sea,  throw  dust  in  its  face  ;  which  swerve,  butt  and  lash 
at  it,  mocking  it,  shouting  of  mastery,  of  the  triumph  of 
steel  and  steam  and  skill — twitting  the  sea  of  a  new 
tameness  which  has  come  to  it. 

It  came  angry  from  the  silences  to  spy  upon  noise, 
and  trapped  that  greyhound  which  had  skimmed  past 
Griselda.  It  smashed  three  round  ports  from  her  side, 
climbed  and  cut  a  navigator  seventy  feet  lifted  in  air, 
then  passed  grumbling  to  find  other  victims. 

It  saw  Griselda  far  down  in  the  blackness,  dreeing  her 

weird,  as  they  say,  scrambling  along  towards  the  dawn, 

her   decks   crammed — a  white  picture   of  incompetence 

seeking  to  escape. 

Fair  game  for  the  sea  !     One  of  the  triumphs  !     One 


SPLENDIDE  MENDAX  409 

of  the  haphazard,  too-proud-to-learn  type.  One  of  the 
scow  sort  that  gutter  along  trusting  to  steel,  who  pretend 
there  is  nothing  to  learn.  One  of  the  kind  a  sea  will  take 
in  its  arms  and  break  in  two  while  men  snigger  and  say 
"  The  Act  of  God  !  "  One  of  the  kind  the  sea  will  take 
up  and  turn  over,  so  that  its  cold  omnipotence  shall  be 
visible  wriggling  in  air. 

It  came  by  slow  stages  out  of  the  dark,  lapsing,  swelling, 
and  arrived  alongside,  sucking  out  a  hollow  for  Griselda 
to  lie  in.  It  took  her  at  a  moment  when  her  propeller 
was  throttled,  at  a  moment  when  O'Hagan,  noting  the 
roar  it  made,  strove  with  helm  and  engine  to  meet  it. 
It  came  quite  buoyantly  from  its  march  and  struck  one 
smashing  blow,  and  Griselda  lay  down  before  it,  wallowing 
in  the  torrent  it  flung. 

Out  of  the  dark  we  come.  Through  the  dark  we  march 
blindfold  to  accomplish  destiny.  Into  the  dark  we 
return. 

There  came  other  blows.  A  flick  at  the  stern,  a  smack 
at  the  bridge,  a  general  fusillade  of  sound — but  the 
Griselda  no  longer  fought.  She  tilted. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

DAWN 

STEAM  broke  over  the  bridge  from  somewhere  near  in 
a  volume  which  amazed.  A  concatenation  of  sounds 
ripped  through  the  roar  it  made — shouts,  cries,  the  falling 
of  weights. 

O'Hagan  pulled  himself  gasping  from  the  lee  rail 
whither  he  had  been  flung.  He  commenced  to  climb 
towards  the  wheelhouse,  shouting  out,  "  Starboard  there  ! 
Starboard  !  "  And  with  the  order  came  Lucy's  name. 
He  called  for  her,  and  felt  wonder  on  receiving  her  answer. 
He  cried  out  to  cheer  her.  "  Good  old  Griselda,"  reached 
the  wheelhouse,  and  demanded  starboard  helm  of  the 
man  who  clung  there  like  one  dazed. 

"  Something's  gone,  sir,"  he  ventured.  "  She  won't 
answer." 

O'Hagan  forgot  the  belching  steam,  and  said — 

"  Rubbish  !     Put  it  over  !  " 

The  man  pointed  to  the  indicator.  "  It's  hard  over," 
he  said,  "  but  she  don't  budge  !  " 

"  Keep  it  so.  Watch  her  and  let  me  know  if  she  comes 
to."  He  rang  up  the  telegraph  and  left  it  at  full  speed. 
And  again  he  climbed,  calling  to  Lucy. 

He  came  near  and  learned  she  was  safe.  "  Here  ! 
Here,  oh  dearest  ...  I  thought  you  were  gone  !  " 

"  No.  Please  God,  we'll  pull  through  yet.  A  near 
squeak  though." 

He  kneeled  beside  her,  unfastening  the  lashings  which 
held  her.  "  We  must  get  you  out  of  this,  oh  my  soul  !  " 
he  called  to  her.  "  We  must  get  somewhere  where  the 
seas  can't  climb.  .  .  .  Wheelhouse  for  the  moment. 
On  deck  there  !  On  deck  !  "  He  turned,  shouting  into 
the  void,  but  the  roar  of  steam  and  the  song  of  the  gale 
were  his  answer.  He  stooped  and  took  Lucy  in  his 
arms.  "  Come  !  "  he  said  in  her  ear,  astonished  at  the 
coldness  of  her  cheek,  "  we  will  get  out  of  this.  I — I  can't 
quite  grasp  what  has  happened." 


DAWN  411 

As  the  Griselda  lurched  to  windward  he  ran  for  the 
door  and  entered.  He  clanged  it  to,  unconscious  that  it 
clanged,  and  crossing  found  a  place  where  Lucy  could 
cling  while  a  wheelhouse  remained.  He  found  that  the 
helmsman  had  vanished.  Then  very  intent  on  solving 
this  riddle  of  loneliness,  he  stood  by  the  lee  door  and  saw 
how  the  seas  poured  over  his  ship.  She  careened  even 
as  he  watched,  and  the  seas  swept  her  decks  as  a  river 
in  spate  sweeps  its  bed.  Something  continued  to  crush 
away  there  beyond  his  vision. 

He  determined  to  go  aft,  and  moved  off  blowing  his 
call.  In  the  engine-room  as  he  passed  a  port  he  heard 
banging,  a  curious  muttering  roar.  He  cried  out  to  know 
who  was  there,  and  his  voice  came  back  to  him.  He  could 
obtain  no  answer,  no  sight  here  of  those  who  should  be 
at  work.  He  reached  the  after  end  of  the  saloon  deck  and 
called  for  the  mate,  then  a  man  wriggled  up  from  the  well 
and  sat  gripping  the  rail  at  his  feet. 

"  Where's  the  chief  ?  "   demanded  the  captain. 

"  Gawd  knows.  .  .  .  I've  not  set  eyes  on  'im  since  she 
rilled.  Think  she's  goin'  ?  " 

The  steam  roared  through  the  fiddleys,  making  speech 
difficult. 

"  Steady,  my  son  !  Seen  the  second  mate,  bo'sun— 
anyone  ?  "  O'Hagan  shouted. 

"  Gawd  knows,"  said  the  man,  "  an'  Ee  won't  tell  us." 

He  gurgled  the  phrase  and  suddenly  collapsed.  Then 
O'Hagan  saw  that  his  leg  trailed.  A  sea  boomed  high 
and  sprayed  them.  The  man  slipped  away.  O'Hagan 
leaned  over  the  rail  shouting — "  On  deck  there  !  Clear 
away  the  boats  !  Clear  away  !  " 

The  men  he  ordered,  Evans,  Treegan  and  those  who 
were  netted,  no  longer  fought  down  there  to  save  cargo, 
but  for  life.  They  swam  and  sank.  They  had  been 
caught  by  the  sea,  crushed  by  cases,  casks  ;  maimed  and 
thrust  out  of  the  world.  They  struggled  :.t  the  entrance 
of  another.  In  a  rage  of  blind  anger  they  cursed  the 
scow  that  had  held  them. 

O'Hagan  fought  his  way  back  to  the  bridge.  He  moved, 
groping  in  a  squall  of  rain  and  hail  past  the  chart-room, 
and  found  it  gone.  It  seemed  that  he  was  alone  in  the 
ship,  then  presently  he  discovered  to  leeward  men  clearing 
away  the  boats.  Their  shouts  came  up  in  a  fine  jangle, 
shorn  of  coherence.  Yet  he  knew  that  the  black  squad 


412  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

fought  here,  men  newly  arrived  from  stokehold  and 
engine-room,  and  one  who  met  him  said  in  blasphemous 
phrasing  that  a  boiler  had  shifted,  bust  the  stays,  bust  a 
steam-pipe,  and  belched  the  chaps  as  was  near.  .  .  . 

"  Where's  the  chief  ?  " 

"Down  there— flayed." 

O'Hagan  came  at  a  run  to  the  wheelhouse,  and  found 
Lucy  clinging  still  to  the  wheel.  Again  she  cried  out 
welcoming  him — "  Dear  dearest !  I  thought  you  were 
lost.  Den  !  Den  !  take  me  too  when  you  go  !  " 

He  gathered  her  in  his  arms.  The  Griselda  quailed 
under  them.  Bubbling  noises  were  added  to  the  jangle. 
The  end  was  at  hand — perhaps  it  would  come  swiftly, 
perhaps  slowly.  It  might  be  that  they  would  outlive  this 
terror  ...  it  might  be  it  would  silence  them. 

Den  found  a  lifebelt  from  the  rack  and  fastened  it 
about  Lucy.  He  seized  another  and  slipped  arms  into 
its  loops  while  she  fastened  it.  They  stood  one  moment 
lip  to  lip,  then  emerged  linked  to  face  what  came. 

Numb  already,  that  child  of  Major  Faulkner's,  drenched 
by  the  sea,  cold  from  the  endless  watch  up  there  on  the 
bridge,  but  a  smile  on  her  lips  as  she  moved  out  with  her 
husband. 

"  You  should  have  stayed  for  the  Carmania  / "  he 
cried  in  her  ear. 

"  You  couldn't  stay — then  how  could  I  ?  " 

And  again  he  hugged  her,  his  thoughts  racing,  his  eyes 
grasping  the  chances,  the  perils — a  captain  without  a 
command,  one  whose  ship  lay  dead  under  him,  a  few 
noisy  ones  struggling  for  escape. 

They  came  to  the  place  where  these  worked,  launching 
a  boat.  The  confusion  was  amazing,  yet  one  directed 
who  knew.  They  lowered  as  O'Hagan  came  near.  Men 
stood  and  sat  in  it,  others  were  at  the  falls.  An  engineer 
shouted,  and  the  boat  moved  swiftly  down — too  swiftly. 
O'Hagan  sprang  close,  crying  out — "  Easy  does  it ! 
Steady  there,  steady  af t !  " 

No  one  heard.  Sea  and  steam  conspired  to  blot  out 
all  order.  The  boat  touched  water,  caught  in  the  ship's 
side,  and  turned  over. 

Again  the  sea  scored,  slapping  at  the  white  sides  of  the 
thing  it  had  conquered.  A  squall  joined  hands  in 
jubilation.  It  screamed  out  over  them  as  they  worked, 
and  Griselda  lurched  down,  obeying  it. 


DAWN  413 

^  angle  became  steeper.  It  became  so  steep  that 
O'Hagan  caught  Lucy  by  the  waist  and  scrambled  to  the 
high  rail.  He  shouted  as  he  went — 

''  This  way  !     She's  going  over  !     Quick's  the  word  !  " 

Some  followed.  Others  stayed,  trafficking'  with  a  boat 
which  still  remained  in  the  davits.  They  strove  in  a  fury 
of  zeal  until  water  met  them,  and  they  realised  the  Grisclda 
would  turn  turtle.  Then  they,  too,  let  full  the  tackles  and 
tried  to  climb  ;  but  the  angle  was  more  steep— they  were 
unable  to  climb.  They  saw  high  above  them  people 
scrambling  over  the  rail.  They  saw  the  dawn  spread  red 
and  yellow  behind  them,  and  the  towering  bulk  of  the 
ship's  decks  careening  overhead.  They  let  go,  and  sprang 
into  the  sea. 

Out  there  was  a  boat.  Chance  might  so  order  it  that 
they  reached.  They  swam  as  the  Griselda  turned  over, 
they  swam  as  those  others  climbed,  they  swam  and  came 
to  the  boat's  side. 

Up  there  in  the  glare  the  ship's  bilge  appeared — steel 
plates  coated  thinly  with  barnacles,  shell-fish,  grass, 
succulent  slug-like  things,  green,  slimy  stuff  which  made 
those  who  crawled  there  slip  ;  which  tore  their  hands, 
cut  through  the  oilskins  they  wore,  and  permitted  four 
only  to  reach  the  high  shelter  of  her  keel. 

Denis  O'Hagan  came  here,  Lucy  half  in  his  arms.  He 
crouched  there  under  the  fin-like  steel  which  stood  above 
them,  crooning  over  the  girl  he  had  won.  Twice  he  had 
fallen  and  twice  succeeded  in  rescue — now  he  bent  down, 
panting. 

"  Are  you  hurt  ?  Are  you  cut  ?  Look  at  your  hands, 
oh  dearest !  .  .  .  Look  !  " 

He  drew  a  muffler  from  his  neck  and  wiped  the  salt 
from  her  face.  "  Hurt,  my  wife  ?  Hurt  ?  "  he  reiterated. 

She  gave  no  answer.  She  seemed  stunned.  He  could 
not  recall  what  struck  her.  Yet  she  was  quiet. 

She  shivered  in  his  arms,  nestling  near  perhaps  unwit- 
tingly now,  clinging  as  all  her  life  she  had  clung.  .  .  . 

Look  up  !  Look  up  !  "  he  prayed,  tears  blinding 
him.  "My  Mem-sahib.  .  .  .  Look  up.  ...  You  are 
safe — you  are  mine  !  " 

Over  there  two  others  crouched,  staring  at  the  sea. 
Again  Lucy  shivered  in  his  arms. 

Faint,  tired,  bruised ;  at  the  end  of  their  tether  these 
two.  Day  growing  over  them,  red,  yellow,  flaming  in  the 


414  THE   BOTTLE-FILLERS 

eye  of  the  gale.     Wind,  sea,  hail,  sleet — a  glorious  blend 
spraying  them,  pelting  them,  dulling  them. 

Down  there  was  a  boat  lurching  in  spume,  bottom  up 
like  Grlselda.  If  he  would  reach  it  O'Hagan  must  stir. 
At  any  moment  their  shelter  might  vanish,  turn  over 
again,  plunge,  disappear. 

Yet  they  were  quiet.  The  squall  had  coated  them 
white.  It  was  cold.  The  wind  came  at  them  with  a 
personal  attack  that  proved  its  intent.  It  scattered  the 
white  hail  in  their  faces  as  they  crouched  there,  waiting 
and  in  silence. 
"  Den  !  " 

He  heard  his  name  and  drew  her  close. 
"  Oh,  my  wife  !  "  he  gave  back. 

"  I  thought,"  she  said  slowly,  "  that  somehow  I  had 
missed  you  .  .  .  that  you  were  gone.  You  won't  go 
now,  will  you  ?  "  She  laughed  gently  in  his  arms — 
laughed,  and  the  pale  god  stood  over  her,  beckoning. 

"  Kiddy  !  "  he  cried  out,  holding  her.  "  Keep  up,  oh 
dearest — keep  up." 

"  No  use,  Den  .  .  .  Baba  is  calling  .  .  .  and  I  don't 
think  I  could  walk  any  farther  ...  do  you  ?  " 

She  lay  silent.  Her  lips  moved.  Perhaps  she  talked 
now  with  Baba  .  .  .  perhaps  God  looked  down,  and  in 
His  mercy  made  the  way  smooth  for  her.  Perhaps  He 
sent  word  to  him  who  wielded  the  whip,  and  said — "  Make 
an  end." 

A  squall  loomed  near — so,  too,  a  ship.  But  the  squall 
reached  first. 

At  its  impact,  Grlselda,  obeying  as  always  the  unstable 
sea,  dipped  a  little  forward,  dipped  a  little  aft ;  quivered 
and  took  up  a  bow  wave  which  flicked  off  one  of  those 
who  crouched  ;  quivered  again  and  flicked  off  a  second 
— stooped  and  made  a  great  effort  to  reach  those  two  who 
remained. 

So  still  they  sat,  so  huddled,  it  seemed  they  did  not 
see  the  end  approach. 

And  the  sea,  curling  high,  flicked  them  also  into  the 
void. 


UUAUDUHY,   AQNBW,  &  CO.   LD.,  PltlNIEKS,   LONDON  AMD  TONBBIDGB. 


